The Ballad of El Halcón
by Lilac Reverie
Summary: The expanded story of Felipe, Don Diego de la Vega's mute servant/adopted brother.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's note: This is the first story of my New World Zorro trilogy. I ask that you read them in the order they were written, which also happens to be alphabetical (although I didn't plan that): The Ballad of El Halcón (this one) first, then The Measure of a Man next, and The Truest Heart last.**_

 _ **Update December 2019:**_

 ** _I have been asked by family and friends unfamiliar with Zorro in general or this show in particular for a brief introduction. Hopefully this will be enough to let anyone understand and enjoy these stories._**

 _Zorro is almost always set in the very early 1800's in southern California, when Los Angeles was a sleepy little Mexican village, California still part of Mexico, and Mexico still part of the Spanish Empire. The town is run by the Alcalde (Mayor), who was appointed by the Spanish crown. In Zorro, the Alcalde is the Bad Guy; a venal, greedy, tin-pot dictator. (Think the Sheriff of Nottingham; Zorro is very much a version of Robin Hood.) The military unit stationed at the garrison in the village are called Lancers for their traditional weapons. Their Sergeant, named Jaime Mendoza in the series, is a nominal Good Guy, good-natured but bumbling, and often confused._

 _The Hero is Don Diego de la Vega, son of local landowner Don Alejandro de la Vega, recently returned from_ _many_ _years away at school and university (so nobody in Los Angeles really knows his character, or that he is now an expert swordsman). In order to oppose the Alcalde and protect the populace, he takes on the secret identity of Zorro ("the Fox"), with mask, cape, sword, and that slashing "Z" you probably recognize. The only one to know the secret is his mute servant/sidekick, in this show named Felipe, a teenager. Not even Diego's father or his love interest, Victoria (who runs the cantina/tavern in town) know the truth. As Clark Kent, excuse me, Diego, he pretends to be meek and cowardly, of course._

 _Having said all that, however, know that this trilogy is_ _not_ _"the Adventures of Zorro". The man in the mask makes only a single appearance in all three, and no Z is carved anywhere. These stories are about what happened to the main characters_ _after_ _the show ended._

 _ **For fans of the show:**_ _In the very last episode, almost the last scene, Diego_ _does_ _announce his intention to adopt Felipe. Everything I write_ _after_ _that moment is entirely my own invention. Everything_ _before_ _that moment is as true to the series as my memory and internet research allows. Felipe's backstory, in particular, is as depicted on screen, except for details such as names and his ultimate origin. I_ _have_ _, however, changed Felipe's character somewhat from the happy-go-lucky kid portrayed by Juan Diego Botto, to someone deeper, darker, more intelligent, and (frankly) more interesting; the basis for this entire interpretation._

 _ **For returning readers (if any):**_ _With this update, I have gone through and made some small changes, fixing errors (Toronado is an Andalusian, not Arabian, and Sofia is spelled with an F in Spanish), and adding in a_ _few_ _of the embellishments I made in my later two stories. Although the conceit here is that this story contains Felipe's memories, written down many decades later – explaining the differences – there are still a few things (such as the sword) that he would have remembered._

 _ **Disclaimer:**_ _all the main characters, described above, belong to whomever owns the show rights. All other characters herein, especially Doña Marianna, are mine._

* * *

 _ **The Ballad of El Halcón**_

 _ **Archivist's Note:**_ _The following text file is the translation into modern American English from the original Early California Mexican Spanish of a hand-written, leather-bound volume found within the vast archives of the Familia de la Vega, which were bequeathed to the UCLA Library by Margareta de la Vega on her death eight years ago as I write this. The volume, cataloged as AQS-DLV-06833-WH8, is bound in black leather, with unmarked covers, and the title (which we have kept) hand-written on the inside front cover. It was apparently written by two individuals based on the handwriting: the main author, self-identified as Felipe Marco de la Vega, and a few added editorial notes with the initials "CdlV", assumed to be the author's mentioned granddaughter, Catarina de la Vega. While some efforts have been made to authenticate the story therein, as records from the period are nearly nonexistent nothing has yet been established with any certainty. We are hopeful that as the cataloging continues we might discover such authenticating documents, or at least the companion volume mentioned: the journal of Don Diego de la Vega._

 _The Library is indebted to Juan Carlos Garcia and James Terrell for this translation, made as part of their Master's Theses in Spanish and Early California History respectively. All names and some titles have been left in the original Spanish, as well as certain other words, deemed either common enough to be known, or with a specific meaning that is not easily translatable. A few have English translations in brackets after them. All other details, including the occasional editor's notes by CdlV, are left precisely as they are in the original._

 _Jeremy Haskell, Chief Archivist  
University of California. Los Angeles  
June 18th, 2010_

* * *

 **One**

My name is Felipe Marco de la Vega. I have had other names, but I will tell them as I go. If you are family, reading this, perhaps you already know some of them. If my brother, Don Diego, were here, he would slap the back of my head for not writing Don Felipe, but in all these years I have never become comfortable with that title. I prefer Capitán – at least I earned that one.

I do not know exactly when or where I was born, or exactly how old I was on the day my life changed forever. I still have only a handful of memories from that day and before, and they returned later, as you will see. But I do know when and where that day was. The date no longer matters to anyone now living, which is only me. And the place, the old pueblo of Marenga, is almost forgotten even by the people of the new pueblo just to the south; its adobe walls, no longer protected by tile roofs, slowly melting to nothing in the sometimes rains. And almost no one knows the story, unless they read the two plaques in the church in Nueva Marenga and ask the elders there about them.

After all, it was only a tiny local uprising. Some farmers, having enough of being rodeoed by absent landowners, made some noise and set some fires, and killed some hidalgos, until a company from the Army of New Spain under Coronel [colonel – trans.] Miguel Jesus de Villanueva y Marques was sent to put them down. After fruitlessly chasing them around the countryside for a few weeks, the coronel decided to end it and take out his frustration by leveling an entire town – the town of Marenga, with all its inhabitants. Every man, woman, and child within the town on the day in question, living there or passing through, was murdered by cannon fire, then heavy artillery, then rifle and even pistol fire. All but one: me. I was the only survivor, a child of perhaps seven. I know all these facts because I found them out, years later.

How did I survive? My parents put me into a chest or barrel, and hid me in the middle of the wagon they were frantically pulling out of town. How do I know this, if I have no clear memories? Because to this day, I am terrified of small, enclosed places. Do not lock me in a closet, my grandchildren, or I will die of a heart attack or go screaming loco in minutes. I would add: do not bury me in a casket, but I will not care by then. Just do not discuss it in front of me. Even writing this makes me sweat.

When everyone was dead, and all was silence again, the army left, riding away in triumph, and apparently I crept out of my hiding place during the night. And the next day a young man of just eighteen came riding through, on his way from Mexico City where he had been attending school, going back to his home in Alta California: the man who would become my brother, Don Diego de la Vega. He found me, he said, sitting on a pile of rubble in the cratered field beside the destroyed town, where the heaviest bombardment – and the main massacre – had taken place, staring blankly into space. I was perhaps seven or eight years old. I could neither speak, nor hear, nor remember anything. Much later, when we could communicate, he told me he believed I had somehow done that to myself so I would not remember the massacre. Because of everything that has happened to me since, I believe he was right.

He took me home with him, to his family's hacienda outside of the pueblo of Los Angeles in Alta California, and presented me to his father (his only living close family), Don Alejandro de la Vega. My first true clear memory is of meeting Don Alejandro, the man I would also come to call Father, for the first time. We were standing in the entry of the hacienda while the two of them talked. I was completely bewildered and frightened, not understanding a single thing. And then this man, dignified and handsome with his white hair, looked down at me and smiled kindly, got stiffly down on one knee, and gathered me into his arms. And for the first time, I felt safe.

I have been asked, how do I know it was the first time if I have no memories from before? Because I knew then that the feeling was new, even though I couldn't identify it. I just knew it was good, and I wanted more, I wanted it never to end. I was afraid to do anything that would end it. This is important later. I have never, ever, forgotten that moment, or that feeling. This is one of the few things in my early life that I am certain of.

So they took me in, and I slowly came to understand some things. I knew nothing. I was like a newborn infant in a boy's body. But I learned again to dress myself properly, and behave like a human being, and understood some simple hand signs, and began to do some simple tasks around the hacienda. I was something in between a servant and a son, never certain of my true place. I understood that I was missing some ability, was aware that others communicated differently from me, but never quite grasped how.

And then Don Diego went away. It was a long time before I understood where and why: he had gone to Salamanca in Old Spain to study at the University there. All I knew was that he was gone, and it frightened me again. What if I did something that made me go away? Where would I go? How would I live?

It was a few weeks later that the first miracle happened. I woke up one morning able to hear again. Of course, I didn't understand – at ALL – what was happening. All I knew was suddenly my head was filled with something I couldn't escape, couldn't turn off, couldn't comprehend. It frightened me so badly that I ran out of the hacienda and up into the hills, running for miles to try to outrun whatever it was. But of course I couldn't. It wasn't until I had stopped, exhausted, and was sitting catching my breath, when I happened to knock over some small rocks. I saw the rocks move, and heard them – and suddenly something fell into place in my brain, perhaps some body memory returned, and I realized I was hearing sounds. I remembered – no, not remembered, I knew – what it was. I stayed in the hills for a few weeks, becoming accustomed to hearing, eating what I could find, sleeping in a cave, until some of Don Alejandro's men found me and took me back home.

I didn't tell Don Alejandro why I had left, or that I could hear. I'm not entirely sure, even now, why. Part of it was that fear of doing something that would send me away, that would lose the feeling of safety. Part of it was knowing, somehow, that if others knew I could hear, they would expect other things, too, things I could not do or give. I later realized that those other things were speech. For although my brain had unlocked my hearing, it hadn't unlocked my mouth. I could not speak for many years to come.

Another part was that, although I could hear, and realized that people were using the sounds of their mouths that I could not make to communicate, I still could not understand them. I literally did not know what anyone was saying. So I pretended that I still could not hear, and learned. I slowly began to put together sounds and meanings, and learned to understand what they said. To this day, although I have been able to speak for many years, I sometimes speak simply or badly, like a child. Don Diego once asked me what I thought in those years before I learned Spanish. The truth is, I do not really know. It wasn't in words, and I have no words to describe it. Think of an idea or an action, without using words, and there you have it. But one other effect is important to know – from all those months and years of listening so hard, I have very sharp hearing, sharper than most.

And then one bright summer day some three years later, Don Diego came home. By then I understood enough to follow most things. I even had some small grasp of how big the world was, how far away he had been, and what he had been doing. And he caught me out, when I unguardedly reacted to hearing an animal when he was there. He decided to keep my secret for his own reasons. But he did try to teach me some things over the next few years, to make up for my lack of schooling. I learned to read and write a little, and do sums, and something about the world, or at least our part of it. He was hampered for lack of time, so busy with other things, and continuing to hide my hearing, as well.

I will not go into the tales of his grand adventures during those years as the masked rider known as Zorro – he already did so in his own journal. If you have not read it, grandchildren, ask Paulo's sons where it is – I do not know who keeps it. [Ed note: strike if published – CdlV] But I remember them well, and the people, and the excitement and fear. And, very often, hard and dangerous work, as I was the only other person who knew his secret, and I helped him conceal it, even from Father and Doña Victoria in the pueblo, whom he loved.

Ah, Victoria. I remember her so clearly from those days, full of fire and strength, and fierce determination to live, and to do what was right. She had to have all those things, or she would never have survived what was to come. But that is for later. What I remember best about her then is how she treated me. When others would glance at me and glance away, not knowing how to act around a deaf and mute boy, she always stopped and looked directly at me, and smiled, just for me. And she would speak a little slowly, because (she believed) I had learned a little to read lips, and used what signs she knew, and made sure I understood her. In short, she treated me like a a human being, the only one other than Don Diego and Don Alejandro to do so, and I loved her for it. And I remembered it always, and used it. To this day, whenever I am speaking with anyone, especially someone who is hurt or troubled, I stop, look at them, and listen. I cannot help it, and I learned it from Victoria. (And yes, I was half in love with her, too – but you are not reading this to hear about a young boy's sundreams, nor will I tell them. Let them lie forgotten in the long ago.)

But the happiest moment of my young life was the day Don Diego announced that he planned to adopt me, to make me officially a member of the family. It crashed an hour later, when Don Alejandro began an argument with Diego about which of them would do it. Don Alejandro insisted that he wanted to adopt me, to be my father, and Diego would be my brother. He won that argument, and turned to me with a smile, but at that moment, I couldn't stand the lies. I motioned to Diego I was sorry, then turned to Don Alejandro – to Father – and pointed to my ear and nodded. He understood immediately. "You can hear? Truly?"

I tried to explain why I had hidden it, all those reasons from before, but they rang hollow. I didn't give away Diego's secret. In the end, Father said he understood, and forgave me. He even began working on drawing up the papers to make the adoption legal. And I began thinking of them as my father and brother from that day.

But I was writing of Diego. During that same time, I knew he was reaching the end of his rope, as they say. The long separation from Victoria, with no end in sight, the continued lies to Father, and knowing of Father's barely-concealed contempt for the half of a man that he was pretending to be, all were wearing him to the bone. Many times I found him with his head in his hands in despair, and wondered how much longer he might be able to go on. It certainly looked as though his enemy, the tyrant alcalde [town mayor – trans.] Ignacio de Soto, would outlast him.

And he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

My granddaughter, Catarina, at whose urging I am writing these stories down after years of telling them, and who is reading them after me, tells me I must try to do better to describe what I was feeling. I confess, this is very hard for me. Even today, I struggle sometimes to put names to what I feel. And reaching back through the years, to recapture what I felt at a given time, untangle the mess, and put words to each part? Nearly impossible. But I will try, cariña.

For most of this early time in Los Angeles, you can assume what I felt was usually some mixture of confusion, fear, and anger, with sometimes a little happiness and laughter thrown in. Perhaps my memories of the time have been colored by what came later, I cannot tell. Perhaps I was happier – or at least, appeared to be – than I remember now. I do not know. But I do know that I never quite lost the fear and confusion, that I had carried with me away from Marenga, and I was always at least a little angry at what fate – or my own brain – had done to me. Sometimes very angry. And always very frustrated. As hard as I tried, I could not escape it, any more than I could force the connections I knew now were missing between my brain and my mouth, and let me speak. But I always hid the anger as best I could. Diego was best at pulling me out past the anger, and helping me to be happy, because he believed in me, and I tried so hard to live up to that.

Then, five years after Diego's return and putting on his mask, came that terrible day when my life was completely changed, again, and this time with no blessed shutting down of memory to erase it. I remember every moment of that black day.

We had been up most of the night before, Diego and I, doing I can't remember what. But I was lying on my small bed, fully dressed but deeply asleep, mid-morning when the earthquake struck. I was tossed out of bed and onto the floor before I was aware, and woke up silently screaming. I managed to shove my feet into my boots, and staggered through what I now know were aftershocks down the hall. At the front door I halted. Despite my promise above, I can only describe what I felt as shock and horror. There, on the tile floor by the door, in a large pool of blood, and covered with fallen debris, were lying both Father and Diego. They were dead, unmoving, unbreathing, their blank eyes in white faces staring unblinking at nothing.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring, when I heard a crash from the hidden cave below the house. I turned automatically and went through the secret passage, and found that Diego's black Andalusian stallion Toronado, that he rode as Zorro, had kicked down the door to his stall in fear in the earthquake, and escaped out the tunnel. Without thinking, I grabbed his bridle and ran after him. I just caught the barest glimpse of him, galloping south. It took me hours of running to catch up to him, and then to convince him to stop and let me come up to him. Only the fact that I had been grooming him daily for five years let me slip on his bridle and then climb somehow onto his bare back.

And there I sat, for long minutes, staring back north towards the hidden hacienda, as it rolled over me. I had lost everyone. Everything. My whole life was gone. I had literally nothing to go back to. The adoption had never been made official. It was only talk. And even if it hadn't been, how could I, a mute boy of perhaps sixteen – even if I let my hearing be known – how could I hope to run a large ranch by myself? No one would even let me try, even if I had any idea what to do. I had nothing. It was all swept away, with the only family I knew. There were two huge holes in my heart that could never be filled, and only silence and absence and no love left.

I had nowhere else to go, either, no one to turn to. I thought briefly of Victoria, of riding and asking her for help, but even then, I shied away from telling her the truth of it, of who her masked lover had been. It wasn't my secret to tell, then or ever. I couldn't face her, couldn't bear to be the one to crush her heart.

I turned Toronado's head back to the south, and rode away. And just kept riding.


	3. Chapter 3

**Three**

I don't know how long we kept drifting south for that first part, Toronado and I. Weeks, perhaps. I ate whatever I could find or steal – I wasn't very particular. Day after day I cowered on his back as he moved slowly along, grazing as he went, hiding from how small and stupid I was. How helpless and alone. I felt I had left all the happiness I would ever have behind me, all I had left was the anger. And every time I closed my eyes, I saw them again in my head: Father lying near the door, staring up sightlessly through the ruined ceiling to the sky. Diego closer, his head turned toward me with one hand outstretched, eyes and mouth open as if he had been calling for me. Every detail was burned into my memory. I opened my eyes again and kept riding.

I hid the horse in ravines or old barns sometimes, and walked to a nearby town to steal or beg for some food. I stole a blanket, and a skin for water. I had my knife in my boot – the one Diego had given to me years before. I was looking for a saddle but never got the chance. All these thefts both bothered me and did not. When I thought of Father and Diego, they would have been shamed, but they were gone, and I was nobody again. What could honor mean to nobody?

Once, walking down a street, I heard a man yell "Ay, Marco!" and looked around quickly, before spotting the man and realizing he was talking to someone else, not me. A few more steps and it hit me: he called Marco, not Felipe. I stopped cold, bewildered again, and tasted the name in my mind. Marco. It felt right. It felt like me. Slowly the certainty grew: this must have been the name my parents gave me, and called me as a child. I thought: "I can't wait to tell Diego! He'll be so amazed and happy!" And then, at once, it crashed through me again. He would never hear. He would never know, and grin at me with delight for the discovery. I am not ashamed to say I wept that day, long and bitter with grief, and that night, and many nights after that. [CdlV: why did that never happen before?] Simple - there was no one named Marco in Los Angeles. It was a very small place. I had never heard it called out like that.

It was some days later that I went to sleep one night as usual, under a tree a little ways off the path we had been following, Toronado grazing on the long grass nearby, loosely hobbled so he wouldn't wander too far. But when I woke up again, the sun was high overhead, my head was aching and I had a huge bloody lump on the back of it, and I was so dizzy I could barely sit up. And Toronado was missing. Someone had come across me as I slept, hit me on the head and apparently left me for dead, and stolen my beautiful horse away.

It took all the rest of that day and much of the next before I could even stand and walk – that blow on my head had nearly killed me. But finally able to focus, I followed the tracks left behind. Three men had done the theft, then led Toronado away to the east. He hadn't been entirely willing – they must have thrown ropes around his neck. A short distance away I found where they had left their own horses tied up. And a couple of miles further, signs of more men and more horses. Many more – a large herd had been pastured there. And now all of them – and Toronado – had gone, headed southeast.

With that loss, the anger I had felt all my life [several words half written and crossed out] ¿? [contracted and intensified – CdlV] and became a hard, icy fist of fury in my chest, and it never went away. Everything I did after that was colored and guided by that fury. I was angry at the world, at fate, at my own betraying brain, at everyone who had ever hurt me, and I wanted to strike back. It took long to learn how. Most of all, at that moment, I wanted my horse back. He was literally all I had in the world. And he was my friend.

I walked slowly after them, following the trail they had left, moving slowly because I was still sick and dizzy. After a few days, them getting further and further ahead, I recovered enough to walk faster, then to run. And run I did, day after day. They were moving swiftly now, having gathered a large group of horses and taking them to their destination, wherever that was. It felt like I ran the whole length of Mexico after that horse, although I know I didn't. It is a huge country. I maybe ran half. And many things happened along the way.

One day I came to a larger town on the coast – we were traveling beside the Golfo de California, on the mainland side. The horse thieves and their herd had gone around it and on, but I needed to stop and rest, and get some food to carry with me if possible, so I went into the town. And it was very very good that I did, because it was there that the next miracle happened.

I went down to the docks and sat down, watching the boats. I remember that I was completely exhausted from running all day – it was nearing evening – too tired even to think. I simply sat, empty. Two men came along and sat down on pilings near me, chattering away to each other. I dully realized that I couldn't understand a word, but that was not that unusual for me. Then, as I sat there letting the sounds wash over me, something shifted inside my brain, and as quickly as that, _I understood every word._ With the understanding, a name came: they were speaking Italian. I drank it in, wondering "What the hell is going on?", it dawning on me a moment later that I was even thinking in that language.

Then one of the men turned slightly and saw me – I must have been gaping at them like a fish – and laughed and asked me a question in Italian, I can't even remember what. And without even thinking, I simply... answered. I could speak. My mouth had been unlocked along with the language. My face when I realized what I had done must have been very funny – they both roared with laughter.

No need to tell you all the confused chatter then, but finally they had an idea of what had happened. They were cousins, called Seppe and Lorenzo and they were carpenters, making sturdy furniture. They took me on as a helper for a couple of weeks, as I got comfortable speaking. I still couldn't speak in Spanish, somehow, those connections weren't there in my brain. And I couldn't shift quickly between the two languages. I have always likened it to a train switching tracks; I have always had to stop and force it somehow, though I could never describe how. I can tell you, though, my own voice sounded so incredibly strange to me, I often stopped mid-sentence in surprise, and had to grope around again to find the thought to finish it.

They taught me many other things, as well – some of them not so good. On the third night they both went out, and Lorenzo came back to the small house we shared, very drunk and angry. I said something silly, and he lashed out with a fist, catching the side of my head and making me dizzy. Before I knew it, he was pounding me, till I collapsed onto my pallet and blacked out. I never had a chance to defend myself, nor would I have known how.

When I woke up the next morning, Seppe was there, whistling as he always did while making breakfast. I tried to get up, thinking to sneak away and just be gone, but he heard my moan and came to see. The face he made was terrible, and he yelled at Lorenzo to get up and come out, finally going in to his room and dragging him out by the arm to face me. Lorenzo was instantly sorry, but he didn't remember any of it. I just wanted to leave, but they begged me to stay and let them make up for it. Lorenzo wasn't supposed to get drunk like that because of his temper, and he knew it. I was in pain and angry, and skeptical of them making amends, but then they offered a deal: Lorenzo promised to never drink again while I stayed, and in return for my help, they would teach me what I hadn't known the night before: how to fight, how to defend myself against an attack with fists or knives.

So I did stay, to learn some of those things. I swore to myself that no one would ever beat me up again. I could have learned much more, but all the while, Toronado was being taken further and further away. So finally, after learning some basics and enough to keep practicing them, I left, picking up the trail of the horse thieves heading, I now knew, towards Mexico City. Somehow I had to catch up and get my horse back before they lost themselves in the city where I would never find them. I started running again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

It took me five more weeks to catch up. In that time, two more things happened that are important to know. First, one day I was trotting along the base of a cliff in the mountains, not long after leaving Seppe and Lorenzo, when I happened upon a young bird, a hawk, not even fully fledged yet, hopping and flapping frantically around on the ground. Too young to fly. I looked up at the cliff and spotted the nest halfway up, several man heights above my head.

I cannot pass by an animal in need. I carefully caught him and stuffed inside my loose shirt, where he settled down, and I began finding my way up the cliff. It took about half an hour, but I finally managed to get near enough to shove the baby hawk over the edge into the nest, dodging the stabbing beaks of the other three babies already there. It didn't dawn on me until later that they were all much larger than the one I had rescued. The mother – a large, beautiful red-tailed hawk – was just coming back, screaming at me, so I dodged and scrambled and half-fell down a few feet away from the nest. I heard a commotion from above, and looked up just in time to see her deliberately shove "my" baby back out again.

All right, I'm not an idiot. Don't tell me twice. I somehow managed to reach out and snag him by one foot as he tumbled past, and stuffed him back into my shirt for the climb back down. I took a good look at him then, and realized that no, he wasn't badly hurt, and yes, he was a runt. And that is how I got my hawk. Finding food for him as well as me was a challenge, but I learned to follow the vultures to dead animals, slicing off a bit of the raw meat for my friend and leaving the rest for the others. He wasn't far from fledging, after all, and I taught him to fly by simply tossing him in the air. After that, I tried to teach him to hunt small animals by tossing dead ones as he flew overhead, but he didn't catch on at first.

I never tied anything to his legs. I wanted him to stay with me because he wanted to, and if he didn't, then good luck and a life of freedom to him. He was not my property. But he did stay. And after a while, I named him Alaric, which Don Diego had once told me meant "winged one", and I roughly stitched a piece of tough leather to my shirt's shoulder for him to perch on. He learned not to claw me before he got too big.

Not long after that, I put him on the branch of a tree late one evening, hoping he would stay put in the dark, and I went into a small town for some food. I went into the cantina and bought some beans and tortillas with one of the coins I had left from Seppe, and was just sitting quietly by myself, eating, letting the Spanish chatter wash over me. And it happened again. As someone turned to me and asked a question, something shifted inside my brain, and without thinking about it, I simply... answered. In Spanish. My voice had finally been unlocked completely. It is these repeated miracles, as I felt them happen inside my skull, that made me think Diego had it right, that I had done it to myself to not remember the bloody, brutal massacre of my parents and all the others.

This time, I didn't stay and revel in my voice's freedom. I went back out, found Alaric where I had left him, and continued on my journey.

As I neared the city, I was able to keep following the horse thieves, not by tracking them, but by asking the people I was passing more and more. It is not hard to find out where a large herd – they had more than a hundred horses then, and a dozen men – went. They were headed towards the headquarters of the Army of New Spain, apparently to sell the horses to the Army as officers' mounts and cannon-pullers. Including my Toronado.


	5. Chapter 5

**Five**

I didn't make it in time, after all. I found the Army headquarters and the large fields where they trained men and horses, to discover the thieves had already been there, sold all their horses, and left. I wandered around for a while through all the various stables, just looking – no one paid attention to a skinny ragged boy, and I hid Alaric, who was still small, inside my shirt again. And finally I spotted Toronado, in stables for horses belonging to officers, of course. I asked, and was told he had been bought by one Mayor [major – trans.] Montoya Coloma, who was perhaps regretting it. Why, I asked, and my informer grinned. The horse was still wild, and the mayor was having to break him to ride.

I watched him walk away in shock, my mind racing. Toronado was not wild, but only for the right rider. I could hear the horse dancing and snorting angrily, knocking the thick wooden door of his stall with his hooves. But there were too many men around then.

I went out and found a small place in the nearby woods, hidden in the midst of large bushes, where I dug into the leaf litter and slept until sunset. Then I held up my fist for Alaric and he came to me, and I talked to him, hoping he could understand. I told him I was leaving him free, that I would try to come back for him, but if I didn't, to take care of himself. Then I tossed him back into the tree, and crept quietly back into the stables.

No one was around, all were at dinner. I made my way to Toronado's stall and slipped inside. He had been left tied to both sides so he could only move his head a couple of feet. He startled to see me, but he knew me, and buried his nose in my shirt when I came close. I ran my hands lightly over him in the growing gloom, trying to feel his condition. He snorted and danced away as far as the cross-ties would let him, as I touched his flanks. The mayor had been using both spurs and a whip, trying to break my wonderful horse to his will. I was also speaking softly to him, realizing he had never heard my voice.

But as I was doing this, I made my fatal mistake: I forgot to listen outside, and Toronado didn't warn me. Before I knew they were there, two men had reached in and grabbed me by the shirt and leg, and dragged me out of the stall. I struggled and kicked, but to no good, and then several more soldiers were there helping to subdue me. They dragged me all together out and to the mayor's tent, telling him where they had found me.

He only glanced at me, and growled two words as he turned away: "Flog him."

So they dragged me out again to the punishment ground, still kicking and fighting, and eight of them pulled off my shirt and tied me up to the pillar. I wasn't a soldier, so they called no punishment parade, and did the deed in front of only the few men who happened to be there. I know they only gave me ten lashes, though it felt like a hundred, the searing pain even worse than the anger and outrage that I couldn't stop it, again. And for the first time in my life, I screamed. Yes, grandchildren, that is the origin of the scars still on my back.

Afterwards, I was only half-conscious. They cut me down and dragged me off, I neither knew nor cared where. They thought they were being funny, but they actually saved my life. They tossed me back into Toronado's stall, at his feet, expecting the "wild" stallion to trample me to death. Instead, he stood guard over me all night, letting no one near.

The next morning I slowly woke up and realized where I was, and found an old soldier crouched at the entrance of the stall, out of Toronado's reach. He was holding a smelly pot of salve, and trying to convince the horse to let him spread it on my back, saying he was only trying to help, but the horse was stretching his neck as far as he could to bite, and threatening to stomp.

"Toronado," I croaked. "Stop." And I got a hand around one fetlock and felt him calm down. Then I pushed up to hands and knees – luckily I had landed and been lying on my stomach all night – and crawled nearer the old man. The salve hurt nearly as much as the lash, but I knew it would help stave off infection. And it did, although the cuts took long to heal.

As he finished, we heard men approaching, and he scuttled off and disappeared. The mayor came around the corner along with several others, stopping short in surprise when he saw me. So the guardsmen had to explain their "joke" and how it had apparently backfired.

"So the devil horse likes him?" he said, sneering. "Good. Then he can look after it." And he told me sharply to get up, and get his horse saddled and bridled. I have forgotten what name he used, I think it was "Sultan". From that moment, the name Diablo Caballo [Devil Horse – trans] lodged in my head, soon shortened to just Diablo. And that is what I called him from then on. "Toronado" seemed a thing of the distant and receding past, another lifetime in long ago California, when he proudly carried Zorro to glory. Now he was Diablo, my Diablo, and Diablo he remained to the end of his days.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

I don't know how I managed to get up that first morning, and groomed and tacked Diablo through the agonizing pain of my lashed back, but I did. It got a little easier every day, with more of the old man's salve, and I knew my back was healing. What became harder each day was to see my horse's condition as he was brought back to me. The mayor was still using every cruel and painful means he knew to try to "break" him, and despite my whispered pleas in his ears at night and morning, Diablo was determined to resist. He hated the mayor as much as I did. Anger pulsed through my veins, and I wanted to seize the mayor's whip and spurs and use them on the man himself. Even more, though, I just wanted to get myself and my horse away.

It took several days, but I finally saw my chance and grabbed it. A moment's inattention by the guards, after the mayor had gone, as I was leading Diablo out from the ring towards the stables, and I was up on his back and away, running through the camp as fast as only my Andalusian stallion could, scattering men as they dove out of the way. I know a few chased us, but they had no chance. Diablo had his wind, and was gone.

Through the little town we went, and out away into the country. We ran into the hills, quickly outpacing any chasers. I threw my head back and laughed: I was free again, and had my horse back, and even had a fine leather saddle for him.

And then we rounded a bend and fell into a trap. The path ahead was blocked by a fallen tree, and men were boiling out of the brush on foot and horseback and surrounding us, with more jumping into the path behind us. In seconds, before we could whirl around and away, we were surrounded.

Diablo was rearing as he wheeled, lashing out both forelegs and screaming a challenge to any who dared to come near. I saw scruffy men with well-worn clothes, some resembling old uniforms, and every one bristling with guns and knives. Several were pointing them at us, at me, and though they stayed well back from Diablo's hooves in a large circle, it was a tight one, no gaps for us to fly through.

One giant of a man calmly walked his horse out in front of the others, resting his free hand casually on his hip near the butt of a pistol.

"Nobody touches the horse!" I yelled before he said a word. "He's MINE!" I was furious again.

His eyebrows flew up, surprised at those first words. "He looks too big for you to handle, boy."

"He's not!" I snarled. I told Diablo to be quiet, and he immediately dropped and stood still, quivering. From that moment I knew he really was mine, every inch, and would heed my call always. "He's mine!" I repeated to the giant, triumphant.

"Oso!" called another man. "That looks like the stallion that mayor has been trying to break!"

Oso grunted and shot at me: "Is it?"

"Yes," I grinned back through gritted teeth. "As you see, he does not need breaking – for me."

"And tell me why we should leave such a valuable horse with you – and let you go?"

"Because he will not let anyone else ride him!" I looked around again, taking stock of the arms, the toughness of the men, and took a gamble. "You are either bandoleros or partisans. Which is it?"

"It depends on who is in my way," Oso grinned back, a little evilly. "A rich hidalgo, or a company of the Spanish army."

"Then I will make a deal with you. Nobody. Touches. The Horse." I beat down with a pointed finger in time to the words, then took a breath. "And I will fight for you – when you fight the army."

He looked amused, but skeptical. "And do you know how to fight, boy?"

Another breath. "No," I admitted. "But I can learn. And I want to. I want to learn from you – from all of you." There were so many things they could teach me about fighting, and I would never worry about being jumped or beaten or flogged again. And already I knew the army was my enemy.

He started to shake his head, and moved to ride forward, reaching out as though to grab Diablo's rein from my hand – when out of nowhere I heard a familiar screech. I looked up and saw my own Alaric winging down towards me, and raised my fist joyfully to catch him. "You found me!" I whispered, forgetting our audience for a moment. Alaric chirruked at me, scolding me for running off and leaving him, before hopping to my shoulder and turning around to glare at Oso. That brought me back too, and I looked at the man levelly. "Nobody touches the horse," I repeated. "Or my bird, or me."

The whites of his eyes were showing, as were those of everyone else. He pulled his horse back two steps. "I may be a simple fighter, but I know a sign from God when I see it," he muttered. Then he nodded. "Agreed." He looked around at his men and echoed me, with the force of his law. "Leave the horse – and the boy – alone." Then back to me, gesturing at the animals, "Will they let me come shake your hand?"

I nodded, and kneed Diablo forward to meet him. And so I met Oso, the Bear, and joined his company.


	7. Chapter 7

**Seven**

The next few years were fierce and brutal. I felt driven, every waking moment – to what or by what, I could not have said. I learned constantly, from anyone and everyone. Whenever we were stopped, in a camp or just resting, I was a nuisance, bothering whoever I could to teach me something about fighting, or just to spar with me. Most of them put up with it, jokingly calling me el niño con el halcón ["the boy with the hawk" - trans], or el Niño Halcón, before they shortened it to just Halcón, until I wasn't called anything else. I practiced every moment I could, every maneuver I learned, hundreds and hundreds of times until they were completely automatic, and as fast as I could possibly move. I did any kind of exercise anyone could show me, until every muscle was as strong as I could get it, and then I kept doing it to maintain it. Even now, as an old man, I am much stronger than I look. I could not be bothered to cut my hair, so I let it grow long and tied it back, and only trimmed my beard close – once it began to grow. I learned every style of unarmed fighting I found in the company, with fists and even feet, and fighting with knives and throwing them, and swords, and how to clean and load and shoot every kind of gun we had, as fast and smoothly and accurately as I could get. And whenever we rode, I put myself next to someone and asked a million questions, learning everything I could about... anything. Anything they knew and could pass on to me. Those habits of constant learning, constant practice, and ever-present curiosity about everything, have stayed with me my whole life.

And of course, I was also training Diablo and Alaric, too, turning the three of us into a fierce, effective fighting unit, that could channel my ever-present fury into cold, lethal action against any enemy. Diablo already had the heart for it, he only needed to learn what was expected by the different signals I learned to give him. War horses are not as effective as they used to be, in these days of firearms, but a good one can still make a huge difference. Alaric, of course, turned into my eyes in the sky, not always reliable, but he often gave warning of hidden, waiting enemies. And other times it was one of my few untainted joys to simply sit and watch him soaring free, high in the air. Reading back, this sounds like empty macho bragging, but it was what I believed and what I did at the time.

And yes, there was fighting. Lots of it. Although Oso had joked about being a bandit and robbing the rich, he was truly a partisan, not a thug. His aim was to disrupt the operations of the Army of New Spain whenever and wherever and however he could, as his small part of the broader effort that was springing forth all over Mexico, all over the new world, as people at last began to wake up to the realities of life under the yoke of the Empire, and the possibilities of something else, something better. It often felt as though we accomplished nothing, especially if a large battalion was on the move and we could do nothing, or a smaller group threw off our attack like flies, but even a nuisance has value. And the tide of public opinion was slowly changing.

Even in failure, I learned. Oso and several others had military backgrounds, and taught me tactics, and strategy, and maneuvers, and logistics. Oso was a big brown bear of a man, earning his pet name, smart as a whip, and he took a liking to me and shared all he could. One other older man I became especially close friends with was named Costa. He had put decades in uniform, rose through the ranks and even received a field promotion to teniente [lieutenant – trans.], and Oso and the others called him that still. Teniente Costa was a fierce, lean, quiet man with the heart of a lion – and a wicked sense of humor. He had finally been summarily drummed out of Spain's army for arguing with his commanding officer about some act of retribution the latter was planning against basically an innocent civilian target. When he told me that, several months after I knew him, I brought up what little I knew about the massacre at Marenga. He stopped his horse cold, staring at me, then spurred on without a word. Two days passed before he would speak to me again, and then he finally told me quietly that he had been there, an ordinary soldier manning the cannons. That hideous day, and his part in it, had gnawed at his conscience and sparked his growing disenchantment with the empire, blossoming at last into his taking up arms against it. I loved him from that day. It was he who finally told me the details of what had happened, some of which I started this story with. It was finally learning the truth of that day, and who was responsible, which cemented my hatred of the Empire and its Army. Every bad thing that had ever happened to me, they had been behind. They had destroyed my life as a boy, had ruined Don Diego's life, had caused my horse to be stolen to supply their officer, had me flogged. And more, they had wrecked the lives of countless others, that I could see all around me every day. Life in the Empire had always been brutish and bloody. There had to be a better way without them.

There were many others in the company, of course, who I also got to know well. Gino of the sharp wit and sharper knives, Sanchez, Menendez, Bolero who could find food anywhere (but one did not ask how), Luis who flirted with every woman he met, many many others. And some who I did not get along with – Oso's second in command was one. He called himself the Cobra, and he certainly lived up to the name. He was not a partisan, he just loved to fight, out of sheer meanness and half-hidden blood lust. A handful of others followed him, being of the same mind, but most of the company agreed with Oso and Costa. Cobra was only second because he was so fast and deadly, but I never asked him for lessons in anything.

And there were others, too, in a wider circle. Oso's company had homes, some in the area, and they did not travel too many days away. In their minds, they were defending their homes and families. I got to know some of them, wives and children, and others – cantina owners and shopkeepers who supported Oso. And there were a few women who traveled closer with the company, fighting when needed. And a couple of them undertook at different times to quietly teach me... other things. There was never any deep attachment between us, but I was grateful for the instruction.

We were a small part of a larger effort, and a few times Oso met with a commander of uniformed armies fighting more formally against the Army of New Spain, in those first long, exhausting years of the revolution. He took me along twice, and I met both Vicente Guerrero and Armande Calderone, who later became leading generals for independence.

But if I ever thought it was a game, the deadly nature of our efforts was brought home to me early. After several weeks of being left behind, or watched over too closely by Oso or Costa, I found myself as part of a wide-ranging scouting patrol, spread out across several slopes. Riding carefully through a stand of trees, I was startled when a Spanish army scout came far too quickly down the path I was paralleling. We saw each other at the same moment, and both swung our rifles around for a shot. I was a shade faster, and I shot him out of the saddle. I had killed a man, for the first time.

When Costa came quickly up a minute later, following the sounds, I was still sitting there on Diablo, staring down at the man I'd killed. He shoved his horse in between us and punched me on the arm to get my attention. "Move on. If you're going to fall apart, do it later."

I nodded blankly, then managed to kick Diablo after him. I spoke to no one for the rest of the day, wrestling with what I had done, so contrary to everything Don Alejandro and especially Don Diego had taught me. I cannot recreate the million thoughts that tumbled through my head, nor the emotions they conjured up. I write these things not to pump myself up, or make myself a hero, but to be truthful. I never enjoyed killing, although it became a little easier over time, but I came to understand that it was necessary, that the only way to make an army leave is by costing it enough blood.

Or maybe I simply got better at lying to myself. Maybe I still am. I am explaining the path I chose, not justifying it so that everyone will agree – an impossible task. I do not think anyone can truly judge the rightness of his own actions. Everyone I have ever known has only done the best they could, with what they knew then. Only history can truly judge whether they were right. Only you can judge me, I cannot judge myself. Perhaps that is what I am trying to do by writing this.

The following morning, after leaving me alone all day and night to wrestle with my conscience, Oso had enough. He pulled me aside and said simply, "I have already told you why we do this. You agreed with the cause. Now you must decide if you can stomach the means. Stay or go. Choose."

I stayed. If part of the reason is that the company had become my new family, or that I had nowhere else to go, does that make it right or wrong? I do not know.

But all things end, and some three years after I joined them, Oso was hit by a pair of bullets in a running battle with a whole battalion through the mountains, once in the thigh, and once in the chest. We pulled back and regrouped, slipping through the passes by paths only we knew, and gathered in a high valley to wait and see. But he did not survive the night, and in the morning, Cobra declared himself the leader.

The rest of us were uneasy, but no one challenged Cobra. He rode through the camp as if he were king, staring down any who raised his head. He took us back down to the lower valleys, and started looking for the battalion we had been attacking. When they proved too well entrenched in their new camp, he set us to making small raids and harassing their patrols. After a few weeks of this, he got bored, and started making noises about attacking nearby plantations instead, looking for gold or jewels, but others talked him out of it. Finally, he gathered us all together and led us to a small valley, where he had planned a trap for one squadron from the battalion, out on a sweeping patrol.

It proved to be a trap for us, instead, cunningly laid by the battalion commander. After we had begun our attack, three more squadrons swept in from either side and behind, pushing us towards a field of rocks where they would have us pinned in a crossfire. Cobra froze, under heavy fire, unable to comprehend what had gone wrong, unable to see a way out.

I did. If we turned and angled sharply past the original patrol, who were in a thinner line than the rest, then on down the valley to the far end, there was a slight chance of escape. I wheeled Diablo around and yelled at the others to follow, then plunged him headlong down the slope, plowing through the patrol as they turned to meet us and away, ignoring the bullets whistling past. I glanced back a few moments later and discovered all the rest of our company strung out behind me, galloping at top speed, and I grinned. Miraculously, every one of us made it, even Cobra.

When we finally stopped to rest and regroup, many miles away and safe, Teniente Costa stood in the middle of the clearing, slowly looking around at each of us without a word. Most of them nodded back. I did also, thinking he was checking on whether we were each unhurt. But I was wrong. When he had finished his circuit, he turned to Cobra, whom he had skipped, and said simply, "Get lost. We're following Halcón," tipping his head at me.

Cobra, shocked, blustered and bellowed, and said he would fight me for the leadership, and kill me. I laughed at him, although I was more surprised than he was, saying "We are not stags, and these men are not our harem. They have chosen me. It is as simple as that." And then I told them to mount up again, and we left Cobra and his few supporters gaping after us in the clearing.

And so I became the leader of my company of partisans, and they started calling me Capitán Halcón.


	8. Chapter 8

**Eight**

I made many changes in how we operated after I took command, not all at once, but steadily, turning us into an even more effective force. I got everyone to start practicing hand-to-hand fighting every day, and learning from each other as I had learned from each of them. We had shooting drills until we could fire all together as fast and as accurately as any well-drilled regular army company. We practiced maneuvers on foot and on horseback, developing hand signals that let us operate in silence – and we practiced moving through forests and buildings quietly, too, until we were as silent as hawks in the air. We wound tiny rags through our horses' tack, and made tough leather boots that fit over their iron shoes, so they too moved quietly and without leaving tracks.

And since I disliked shouting, and had learned to make an extremely loud, piercing whistle, I devised a set of whistle signals instead of verbal commands for maneuvers. Best and most famously, I learned to make a whistle like a hawk's scream, that could be heard clear across a valley, and used it as the command to launch attacks. It quickly became widely known, and feared, in the Spanish Army, as did my name, El Halcón. At first the number of different rumors and stories spread about me and my company surprised me, but then I remembered all the stories of Zorro, most of them completely false. And I began to use those stories to my advantage, as I used everything: all my physical training those three years leading up to my taking command, and all the other training Oso and the others had given me. Over and over, when heading into action, that training, combined with my ever-present icy fury, let me see the field of battle with perfect clarity, and I knew instantly what was needed, and how the enemy would react. It was like a chess game, and I saw six moves ahead every time. And so we started winning, and kept winning, no matter what our objectives were, and I rarely lost a man.

It surprised me how quickly the others fell in with my plans, but much later, I realized something. Those years before, getting to know everyone, I had not only been building friendships, I had been building trust. They trusted me, and knew I trusted them. And that trust went through the entire company, binding us all together. Even after I named Teniente Costa as my second, and divided the company into two squads under each of us, we still fought and lived as one.

Then I gathered the families together, too, and moved them all to a safer place: a small, hidden valley high in the mountains. It was hard to get to, but easy to defend, with only two ways in or out, and although remote, more central to the area we operated in. It was true that having this "home base" with all our families was dangerous, if anyone found it, but we all felt safer and more together. And I began working even more closely with the other rebellion commanders, as they intensified their war against the Empire.

Thus it was that a couple of years after I took command, we found ourselves perched on the steep side of a canyon leading through "our" mountains, watching what felt like the entire Army of New Spain pass below. It was only a portion of it, although the entire Army was on the move, crossing over the mountain chain by various routes. And all the opposition companies, both formal and partisan, were enjoying the movable buffet, choosing our targets with relish.

And here was a sight to behold. The next company, after a long gap, looked like they were parading before the king. Sun danced on every metal point and surface, every uniform was crisp and spotless, the officer's horses sported silk and ribbons, every man on foot was in perfect step, holding his rifle on his shoulder at the same exact angle. And several paces out in front, the commander was a fine dandy, dripping fringe and medals under the flag held by his hapless subaltern.

Costa and I shared a glance. "They look so pretty, I almost don't want to get their uniforms all dirty," he said ironically.

"Think any of them have ever seen any kind of combat before?" I asked.

"That commander sure hasn't."

"Then let's show them some, shall we? But pass the word to shoot slow, and aim high. Let as many of them run as want to." For that was our secret. We wanted the enemy soldiers to run. We never, ever chased them – that's the best way possible to lose your own troops. Let them slip away and disappear into the forest, and make their quiet way home – most of them were Mexicans, pressed into service, and glad of the chance to desert. We let them. Either way, the Army of New Spain had a serious problem with attrition.

I gave the signal, and sure enough, before the echoes even died, many of them were on the run. Including the commander. The instant he heard my whistle, he jammed his spurs into his horse's flanks and was gone, at a flat run. Even his subaltern couldn't keep up. The coward had instantly deserted his troops. They had all run to the rear – he galloped forwards, without a backwards glance.

Costa and I shared another unbelieving glance, then I gave the signal to advance. With their commander gone, the ones left – none of which had seen combat – couldn't mount an effective defense, and the day was far, far bloodier than any of us wanted. In the end, at least half deserted, the others lay dead, and we descended to the deserted baggage train to rifle through their supplies.

And came across the oddest sight any of us had yet seen. Just behind the lead wagon, stuck fast in the mud, was a small two-wheeled, one-horse closed carriage, just big enough for one person, not even a driver on top. It looked like something to carry a lady to a luncheon in a city. No sound was coming from inside.

I stepped up to the side and politely knocked on the door. "Señora? Are you all right?" Still no sound. "I mean you no harm, Señora, I do not make war on women. I'm opening the door."

I gingerly opened it a few inches, and peered inside. And instantly jerked back, as I damn near got my head blown off from the tiny little pistol – barely more than a child's toy – that fired from inside. It was my luck, though, that she flinched when she fired, so the bullet went wild.

I waited several seconds, but nothing more came. It was a single-shot pistol. I spoke again. "Señora? You will not be harmed! Look, my hands are empty!" and I held up both hands in the doorway for her to see, then inched my head back around.

I swear, all I could see were two enormous brown eyes in a paper-white face, above and behind the now-empty pistol. The poor girl was terrified, but trying so hard to be brave. No, I am not making fun of her. I didn't realize it until later, but she was mine, and I was hers, from the moment our eyes met.

I slowly reached in with one hand, and gently took the pistol from her shaking hands, which she instantly dropped to her lap, and then she turned to stare out of the front window through which she drove the carriage herself. I took in her fancy clothes with their long sleeves and high neck at a glance, thinking only that I needed to calm her down. Without recognizing the impulse at the time, I then did something I had never once done before in my life: I dropped the Capitán and Halcón, and introduced myself as Don Felipe de la Vega. Even now I laugh at myself for it. And then I gave her my solemn word of honor that neither I nor any of my men would harm a hair on her head, and in fact would guard her from harm from anyone else. She only glanced at me and away again.

"Señora," I began gently. "Your husband...?"

"He is gone," she whispered, flatly.

Gone? That was surely an odd word. But then... "He was the commander?" She nodded once, tightly. Taking in her view out the window, I asked, "You saw...?"

She nodded again. "I saw him run away, and leave me. And all his men."

For a young wife (no more than twenty) deserted on a battlefield, left to the enemy, she was taking it fairly calmly. "Señora, you cannot stay here. I will take you to a place of safety. But you cannot go in this carriage, the wheel is broken. Can you ride?" She nodded again, and said there was a saddle for her mare strapped to the back. I told one of my men to get it off, saddle the horse, and hand me an empty set of saddlebags, which I set on the floor of the carriage. "You can take only what is most important, and a change or two of clothes. Your things are in here?" I motioned to the box set in below the window. She started to move to open it, but I stopped her and opened it myself, rifling through the clothes to make sure there were no other pistols. I did come up with a small, sharp knife, which I took out and handed to her. "You should be wearing this, Señora, it does no good if you cannot reach it in need." She looked at me then out of the corner of her eyes, I think only then beginning to accept that my word on her safety might just be worth something, then held out her hand for the knife. I gently placed it across her palm, gave a slight bow, then backed up a step and closed the door to allow her a bit of privacy. And turned to Costa, who was drawing breath to argue.

"Tell me you're not going to suggest we just leave her here," I forestalled him. Even he could see that was impossible. He asked through gritted teeth what my plans were, and I told him. He knew from my face not to try to talk me out of them.

A moment later, the carriage door opened behind me, revealing the lady with a long black cloak and a heavy black veil. She paused a moment, then reached up and ripped the veil off, throwing it to the ground with such a gesture of finality that I wondered at it even then. I found out later that it was the veil her husband had insisted she always wear in public, so that no other man could ever look upon her. She never said, but I believed that was the moment she made up her mind. Not about me, but about him.

I helped her out of the carriage and onto her horse, making a stirrup with my hands to lift her up. I offered her a blindfold so she wouldn't see the carnage, but she refused, holding her head high – and keeping her eyes on her horse's ears. I put a lead rein on her mare and kept her beside me, she saw but said nothing. In fact, she said nothing more, to me or anyone, all that day, not even when Alaric swooped low and landed on my shoulder.

We got out of the valley and onto the trails, and an hour or two later I split us up, sending Costa back to the valley with all the men, and turning south with only the lady. We rode in silence for several hours, until I stopped to look around and listen intently to the silence. "Are you lost?" she finally asked, quavering, but I turned to smile at her.

"No. Just making sure no enemy is nearby." I led her on up a hidden path another mile, till we came to a tiny house tucked into a fold in the hills. I tossed Alaric onto the thatched roof to hunt for mice, dismounted from Diablo and helped her down, then we led the horses through the larger-than-normal door and into the stable half of the house. She walked over to the other side and let me take care of both horses, taking the saddles and tack off and giving them a quick rub-down.

She had been standing quite still, facing the other way, until I walked around the half-wall, then turned to face me. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded. "What are we doing here?"

I raised my eyebrows. "First, it's getting dark, and we must stop for the night. However, my promise still holds. You face no danger, even from me." I slowly pulled my sword out from its sheath and placed it on the pile of straw in the corner, used for a bed. "This is a safe place we sometimes use. There is a farmer nearby who keeps it clean and ready for us."

"And where are you taking me?" she repeated.

"To a convent I know of. It's another day or two south of here. The nuns will keep you safe, and contrive to get word to your husband where you are."

To my complete surprise, her eyes spilled over with tears at that, and she began to shake her head. "No," she whispered, and again, "no. Please, don't make me go back to him."

I was shocked. I had expected some condemnation for the way he had run, but this? "But.. your husband... will be wanting to know you are safe..."

"He is not my husband!" came the immediate denial. "He is my tormentor! Would a husband do this?" Without warning, she flung off her cloak, turned to one side, and pulled the neck of her blouse off her shoulder. There on the back – the back – of her shoulder was a deep, angry bruised human bite mark. This was no love nibble. It was a deliberate, angry wound.

I stumbled closer, reaching involuntarily for the mark and touching it lightly, as if to make sure it was real. Then I noticed the bruises around her tiny bare neck – the marks of hands. Later she showed me many other scars and bruises, some of them terrible. I don't know what my face was showing – shock, confusion, horror – but something in it gave her a tiny bit of strength.

"Please," she repeated, tears now pouring down her lovely face. She was a tiny thing, several inches shorter than me, and as slender as a reed. One could have taken her for a child until they saw her face and figure. "I have never known one single moment's tenderness from him, only pain and fear and humiliation. He has never called me by name – I don't think he even knows it. I mean nothing to him – nothing." Her husky voice suddenly turned harsh with disgust. "I am the mare he rides when he will, then makes to sleep on the floor! Please!" She turned back to me now, pulling her collar back up, then reaching for my hands to beg. "Please! Don't make me go back to him! He will kill me because another man looked at my face – he already tried to once," she pointed to the strangulation marks on her neck. "Please!"

I was rocked, shaken to my core. My voice was low and deadly when I finally found it and answered her. "You will never... see him again. He will never hurt you, ever again. I swear it. I will kill him myself if he ever comes near you."

Her hands flew to her mouth as she began to weep uncontrollably. I could take no more, and pulled her into my arms, whispering over and over, "It's all right. It's over. You are safe now. I swear it."

How long we stood there, clinging to each other, I do not know, as she alternately wept and poured out details of what he had done to her for the five years of their so-called marriage. I will repeat none of it, but say only this: what he had done was torture, plain and simple. If he had done any of it to anyone other than his wife – his property under Spanish law – he would have been thrown into prison for life. I wept with her, and held her close, and let her unburden it all.

When the storm of tears was ended, I held her a bit longer, then eased back so I could see her face, gently wiping her tears away with my fingers. "I don't even know your name," I realized.

"Marianna."

"Marianna," I whispered it back to her, drawing it out. She said later I sounded like an ocean wave on the sand. "I'm Felipe."

She looked at me solemnly, but her mouth quirked. "Encantada," she said formally, as if she were not already in my arms, and it made me laugh.

"Encantado," I agreed, and then I asked if I could kiss her. She gazed at me for a moment, then nodded, and I leaned over and gently kissed her, feeling as though I were taking my very first breath in life.

I will not write of the rest of that long, beautiful night, nor the next two days there in the little cabin. It is for her and me alone. But the next morning, we gave each other pledges from our hearts, and became husband and wife. That is all the ceremony we have ever had, or ever needed, your grandmother and I. As she said that morning, he had deserted her in the most public way possible. She did not need to wait seven years, or have some fool in a robe pronounce upon either that or our marriage to make them official.

What was she like back then? asks Catarina. She was kind, and sweet, and gentle, and graceful. She was pretty without fussing over it. And she was smart, and funny, and brave, and strong. There was more, that I saw right away, but it took me long to figure it out, and find the words. Because of what she had been through, she had a quiet dignity, and an unshakable calm. Not the dumb calm of an idiot, but the serenity of someone who has been through hell, who has faced down demons and won. When I was with her, I was at peace, the only time I ever felt that way at that time in my life – or since.

What about her first husband, the commander? Catarina asks again. Ah, that I will tell you later.


	9. Chapter 9

**Nine**

When Marianna and I arrived at the valley a few days later, we were greeted by Luis on guard duty. He stepped out of the bushes, laughing, and said to me, "I could have told you that! You could have come back here with us!"

I laughed back. "Yeah, Luis, but what kind of wedding journey would that have been, with all of you chaperoning us every minute?"

He laughed again, and asked Marianna. "And what shall we call you, Señora?"

Marianna blinked. No one had ever asked her that. "I am Marianna de la Vega," she said proudly.

Luis bowed elaborately. "Welcome to your new home, Señora de la Vega."

As commander, I had claimed one of the few existing little houses in the deserted valley pueblo when we found it, so I had a house to move my bride into. We spent almost four weeks there, letting everyone relax and enjoy some "down" time, before an urgent message came from General Guerrero requesting our assistance. So we rode out again, and began the cycle anew. If we returned to the valley a little more often, and stayed there a little longer, none of the others complained. We were lucky, in a way, that the main war remained just close enough to get to, just far enough away not to endanger our valley, for close to three years. As it was, it was almost eighteen months later that I got the shock of my life.

It began normally enough. We were snaking through lowlands, seeking a particular company that was tearing through the countryside, burning farms and killing civilians. We found them early one morning, distracted by a punishment drill: they were preparing to execute two of their own soldiers. The entire company was drawn up at attention making three sides of a square; the fourth side held the two hapless prisoners, bound and blindfolded, standing against some rocks. The executioners were already lined up.

It seemed like a good time to interrupt, so I gave my hawk's scream of a whistle and launched the attack as well as Alaric – I never let him ride my shoulder into battle. Chaos erupted in the square, as men ran in every direction, mostly ignoring the sergeants and officers trying to bring them into a defensive formation. I saw the prisoners fall, and thought I hadn't quite reacted fast enough to save them, then dismissed it as we pounded down the slope and swept through the camp, firing as we went. A large portion of the soldiers slipped away into the woods to escape, as usual, but some of the rest managed to form up, and I signaled my men to drop into the rocks above the far side to return fire. Another twenty minutes or so, and all was finally quiet below, so back down we went for the next phase. My scouts came in just then to let us know we had limited time, as another Spanish Army company was on the way.

I dropped off Diablo in the middle and began looking for the enemy commander, and dropping feathers on a few bodies. [¿? - CdlV] Ah – that was one of my little tricks. I dropped a few feathers on bodies after every attack. Remember the ones who run away? This made everyone think we had tracked them down and killed them for it. But it was never true. The feathers were random. Just one more lie about El Halcón. This one helped the ones who run decide to stay lost. We broke up companies, but we did not kill nearly as many outright as people thought and said we did. Where did the feathers come from? Some from Alaric when he molted, some from other birds I found dead. I carried them in a little pouch on my belt. [This answer was written on a separate piece of paper put between the pages. - trans.]

Diablo snorted and moved over to one side but I paid no attention just then. It wasn't until a few minutes later, when I was talking to Costa, that I noticed him again. He had walked over to the two prisoners on the ground and was nosing at one of them – an extremely unusual behavior for my horse.

"Diablo?" I called softly. We always spoke in very low tones in the field. "What are you doing?"

Two of my men walked over to investigate, then shot me a look of surprise. "These two are still alive!" I saw the one Diablo was nudging move as if to confirm it.

Something about that blindfolded body sent a chill through me. I didn't want to recognize the thought, but it battered at me. I walked the dozen steps on suddenly unsteady legs, motioning the two fighters to pull the prisoners up to their knees. And then I reached out and pulled the blindfold off Diablo's man, and my world twisted.

 _It was Diego._

The man kneeling there, hands tied behind his back, having just escaped being executed, was my brother, Don Diego de la Vega. The man I had last seen dead on the hacienda floor, the day of the earthquake that changed my life.

I don't recall my knees buckling, but I found myself fallen backwards onto my butt and hands. My jaw must have scraped my chest as I stared hard at his so-familiar face. He stared back at me, recognition dawning, but with incredulous delight rather than my disbelieving horror. "Felipe?"

The figure next to him twisted and echoed the name. As I glanced that way, the other partisan pulled off his blindfold, revealing Diego's old soldier friend from the garrison of Los Angeles, Sergeant Jaime Mendoza.

I turned back to Diego. "No," I rasped out, shaking my head violently. "No. You're dead. I saw you dead!"

"When? Where?"

"The day of the earthquake! At the hacienda! You and Father were lying by the front door, dead! I SAW YOU!" I was nearly quietly screaming.

"You couldn't have. Felipe, we weren't even there. We were in town, at the cantina, when the earthquake hit. When we got home, you had disappeared – so had Toronado." Realizing, he turned his head, to find Diablo – Toronado – nuzzling his face. "Toronado!" he breathed joyously, then turned back to me, then it hit him again. "Felipe... you're talking!"

I chopped one hand down, dismissive. "I have been for years." I was still struggling to grasp something, anything, that made sense. "What are you doing here? In uniform?" For he most definitely was dressed as a common foot soldier.

He shifted uncomfortably. "We were press-ganged," he admitted, trying and failing for irony.

This made no sense at all. "A don... and a sergeant?" I shot back, flatly unbelieving.

Jaime broke in then, loudly. "I wasn't a sergeant – " he got out before I hissed him silent. Then I held up my hand apologetically, put a finger to my lips, then patted the air.

"Keep it down, please," I said quietly, and he got it.

"I wasn't a sergeant any more," he began again, much more softly. "Alcalde de Soto busted me down for arguing with him, then kicked me out. He'd lost it, gone loco. He was going too far."

Diego nodded agreement. "Everything started falling apart after you disappeared. De Soto never had any proof I was Zorro, but he suspected, especially after Victoria married me." Oddly – or perhaps not – it was the names that began to convince me, finally. How would an impostor know them? "So after the traps he set for me didn't work, he framed the two of us for horse theft," he continued bitterly, dipping his head toward Jaime to show who he meant, "convicted us in a quick fake trial, and turned us over to the press gang, to get rid of both of us."

This was real. I was staggered, my head whirling, trying to think. "Untie them," I told the two men behind them, and they quickly did just that. Diego and Jaime brought their hands back around, massaging their wrists.

I was shaking my head when Costa asked pointedly, standing on my right, "And why were you about to be executed?"

I looked back quickly to see Diego shift again, very uncomfortable. He dropped his head and stared at the ground, taking a determined breath. "Because I refuse to do murder. I won't kill except in self-defense – if I can help it." He jerked his head again sideways. "Jaime wasn't part of that. He was just trying to help me, but we both got caught."

"Cowardice," accused Costa, disgust dripping from the word.

Jaime flared. "Don Diego is not a coward," he growled at Costa. "He's a man of principle. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"You're right, I don't – either of you," scoffed Costa. He drew breath for more, but I cut him off.

"That's enough." I rubbed my face with both hands, then spat out a foul word that made both Diego and Jaime jump. Rolling to my feet, I looked around, and told two nearby men to grab the enemy command's two horses "and make them silent". They nodded understanding and jumped to.

"We're taking them with us?" Costa was dumbfounded.

"Yes, we're taking them with us," I began, but he cut me off.

"We're taking prisoners?"

"No, we are not taking prisoners." I was just this side of sarcastic. I pointed a finger at Diego, still kneeling. "That... is my brother." I paused a moment to let that sink into Costa. "Do you honestly expect me to just leave him here?"

"I expect you to remember why we're fighting!" Costa was nothing if not tenacious.

"Why we're – " I broke off, took a breath, and returned. "And why are we fighting, then, Costa, if not for our brothers? Hmm?" I glanced back at the two, briefly. "Congratulations," I tossed at them, staring again at Costa, backing him down. "You both just switched sides."

"I won't do murder for your side, either," said my brother, mulishly.

I had to give a snort of laughter at that. "Now that's the most 'Diego' thing you've said yet," I commented to the air, then turned to face him again. "And I didn't say I was asking you to. But unless you'd care to lie back down and wait for the next Spanish Army contingent to come along and finish your execution... It shouldn't be too long, they'll be here in about an hour," I finished up, agreeableness itself.

Jaime looked up. "That wouldn't be my first choice, no," said the clown, and he poked Diego hard with his elbow. Diego winced, then shook his head, resigned to fate.

I smothered a laugh at Jaime, and said, a little harshly, "Then get up. And consider yourselves under my command until we figure out what to do with you." I glanced at my two men standing behind them again. "Get them ready. No color, no metal – as best you can."

"Sí, Capitán," they both replied. As I turned away toward Hector waiting with the dispatches he'd found, I caught Diego and Jaime glancing at each other, catching the title and command.

The next fifteen minutes my mind was split in two, half of it methodically overseeing our usual activities – glancing through the dispatches, gathering up the guns and hiding them nearby, collecting the two officers' swords and strapping them on Diablo, rifling quickly through their supplies, and I had Chuy select two corpses and tie and position them as the "executed" prisoners – and half aware of Diego and Jaime, getting fixed up. My men cut the metal buttons off their brown overcoats and had them cover the red stripe up the outside of their blue pants with a mixture of mud and tar. They told Diego to take off his wedding ring, but he held up his hand, telling them his knuckle was swollen, and it wouldn't come off. They had him cover it with the tar instead, and then, after a quick check with me, had them both pick up rifles and ammunition pouches. All the while, my attention kept catching on and twisting away from the painful mystery repeatedly. How could he be alive? I saw him lying there!

After a few minutes, I heard Alaric screech, and reached up almost without looking to catch him on my fist then put him on my shoulder. Several yards away, I heard Jaime point Diego at me, asking "Felipe is el Halcón?"

"Apparently," Diego shrugged.

"Does that bother you?" Costa jabbed at him, sarcastic.

"No," Diego replied calmly. "It just surprises me."

"Diego," Jaime said conversationally. "I'm going to stop being surprised at anything. I can't take any more."

I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing, and grinned up at Jaime. "Good plan." He grinned back. Then I caught Diablo again out of the corner of my eye, leaning toward Diego, and I sighed. "Diego," I called. He turned and I motioned him two steps closer, then stopped him, and turned fully toward the horse. "You have to decide whose horse you are," I told Diablo. "Call him," I said sideways to Diego.

"He's yours," Diego started, but I cut him off, not looking at him.

"He has to decide, or I can't trust him."

Diego sighed and turned back to the black stallion. "Toronado. Come here, boy."

Diablo's ears pricked up, but a moment later I added my call, "Diablo," and clicked my tongue.

That horse was always smarter than some men. He knew what he was being asked to do. He looked back and forth between us twice, three times, then he lowered his head a moment. He stretched it out towards Diego and my heart plummeted. Then he gave Diego a low, plaintive nicker... and turned and walked to me, burying his nose in my shirt.

"That... is the clearest horse apology I've ever seen," Diego commented. "I told you he's yours."

I won't deny the tears in my eyes as I whispered, "Thank you" to my horse. Then I sent him over to our waiting line of mounts.

I turned to my brother. "Diego..." I raised my hands, floundering, but just then three different "finished" signals floated softly across the field from my men. Time to go. The new horses were brought over, silenced with rags in the tack and new leather boots, and the reins handed to Diego and Jaime. I walked over to them, able to lose my confusion in business. "All right, listen. We ride long, hard, and fast – and silent. Are you up to it?" They both nodded, though a tad late. "What's wrong?"

Diego said nothing, but Jaime volunteered, "We haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

"Why didn't you say so?" I dug in my pockets for some trail bread and handed it to them, telling them to eat it as they rode and checking their water pouches were full. "We also ride single file. Stay directly behind the man in front of you." I took them over to where the line was forming, and inserted them in, telling the men in front and behind each to look after them, and help with the signals. "If we split up, and we probably will, just keep following the man in front of you. Jaime, you'll be in Costa's squad. Diego, you'll be in mine."

They nodded a final time, and I ran to the head of the line, swung up onto Diablo, gave and got the ready signal, and we were off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ten**

Some time later, I called a break in a clearing high up on the ridge above our late battlefield, and watched out of the corner of my eye as the men came in, dismounted, and set about looking after their horses. I could tell from the silence they were all watching me warily. I didn't blame them – I wasn't sure what I would do, either. They were also staying away from Diego and Jaime – just enough to notice.

All morning I had been keeping it together with a thread, concentrating on the path with all I had, while fighting off that picture every time it came into my head, the one that had haunted me for five years, of Father and Diego lying dead in the hall. Yet he was here, following me! Every time I looked around to check on the line, there he was, three horses back. He'd catch my eye, and we'd stare at each other a moment, then I'd jerk my head back around again.

This couldn't continue. I had to have answers. I left Diablo and walked across the clearing to him, and he saw me coming and met me halfway.

"I don't understand this," I jumped in, tight as a bowstring. "I saw you dead. I saw it!"

Diego took a deep breath. "What exactly did you see?" he asked, the old reasonable, logical Diego half calming me, half infuriating me further. I described the picture in my mind, still so clear after all this time. "Wait," he broke in. "Debris from the ceiling? Felipe... that's not possible. The hacienda wasn't damaged. Some things came off shelves, but the roof certainly didn't come down."

"I'm telling you what I saw," I spat out, and he raised his hands placatingly.

"Back up. Where were you when the earthquake hit?"

"In my room, asleep. It tossed me onto the floor and woke me up, I came out and found you." I saw his eyes widen as something occurred to him, and attacked. "I WASN'T DREAMING!"

"I didn't say you were," he replied.

"Then what ARE you saying?" I was getting more and more rattled and furious.

He took a deep breath, thinking, and then spoke carefully. "I think the earthquake did more than wake you up. I think it... broke through that wall in your mind. Not enough to destroy it, but enough for some memories to seep through." I bristled, about to tell him to get to the point, when he did, shattering me. "Obviously, you didn't see me and Father. I think it was your parents you saw, in your memory. And your... hidden mind put our faces on them."

I know I backed away from him, shaking my head, but I couldn't deny it. I knew instantly it was true. Of all the cruel, horror-filled, betraying tricks my brain ever pulled on me, this was by far the worst, the most devastating. I saw again the picture in my head, and this time instead of shying away from it as I always had, I faced it, and I willed it to show me the truth. And at last Father's and Diego's faces wavered, and faded away, and I saw two others: a man and a woman. And I knew them. I couldn't have picked them out in a crowd, but I knew them.

When I came back to myself, I was across the clearing, hunched over, holding onto a low tree branch with all my strength as my stomach heaved violently, as though my very body was trying to reject the awful truth. When the heaves slipped into wracking sobs, I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I knew it was Diego, but I couldn't face him. I straightened up, stifling the sobs with a fist like a child, and leaned against the tree trunk. He didn't budge. "Felipe..." His voice was as broken as I felt.

"You don't know... how long I mourned for you... how deep..." I got out.

He moved closer. "I know how long and how deeply I mourned for you," came the low reply. "I couldn't find any trace of you. I thought something had happened to you, and it nearly killed me. Despite the legalities, you were my son."

I shook my head, devastated all over again. "I wanted... to live a life that would have made you proud. But look at me. I'm a killer. That's all I am." I still couldn't look at him. I didn't want to see his disappointment at the path my life had taken.

His next words shocked me, though. "So am I," he said hoarsely. "After they flogged me..." He shrugged. A part of my brain reacted in shock to that – my brother was flogged, too? He went on, "Willing or not, it doesn't change the facts. I was a soldier, and I killed other soldiers in battle." He paused, and made a fierce effort to lose the bitterness from his voice. "Felipe... I'm not judging you. I've no right to judge anyone." He pulled on my shoulder and made me turn, so that I looked at him sideways. "But that's not all you are, Felipe. Capitán," he added, deliberately emphasizing the title. "You are the leader of all these men, at what... 23? 24? They look up to you, and trust you – anyone can see that. That's not nothing. That's saying a hell of a lot. And I am very proud of you for it."

I know my face crumpled and I lost it, sobbing again. He suddenly put his other hand on my neck, and pulled me over to him, and we stood there for a time with our arms around each other. I felt a bit of the fury that had driven me for so long melt away. At last I knew, really knew, that I had found my brother again.

* * *

After our reunion, we paused to watch that next company discover our handiwork – I hadn't been kidding that one was coming – and I chased them away with a hawk's scream. As we watched them scramble off, I tried to explain to Diego what I was really doing, protecting the people of the mountains from the Army, and doing our part for the rebellion, but I don't know how much he absorbed. Then Hector approached me with the dispatch he had uncoded, that told me of yet a third company two valleys over doing the same thing. So I gathered the men around and laid plans to turn that company back, as well, and we mounted up and hit the trail to get there.

Late that evening, I called a halt for the night. I walked slowly through the makeshift camp, speaking with each man as was my habit. Again and again I got the quiet question: are they joining us? "I don't know yet," I kept repeating. Finally I ended where Diego and Jaime were settling in, changing into their old civilian clothes hidden deep in their packs and throwing away – literally – their hated uniforms, and I squatted down. "How are you doing?" I asked my brother.

"You weren't kidding about the long, hard ride," he said wryly, then put on a grand manner. "But contrary to all my expectations of this morning, I'm alive. That's definitely better than the alternative," he concluded with a smile, and I grinned back. This was the Diego I remembered.

I turned to Jaime, who commented thoughtfully to the air, "My ass hurts." Then he grinned at me. "But my feet don't. Fair trade."

I laughed aloud at that. "I have missed you," I admitted, clapping his shoulder, and got a wider grin back. I turned to include both of them. "So, what are we going to do with you?"

"Well," my brother began, "my first choice would be to go home. But I can't." At my puzzled look, he continued. "If I turn up before the war ends, or without a serious enough wound to get me discharged, I'll be arrested and executed for desertion. I'm sorry, but I'm too cowardly to face that."

"That's not cowardly as far as I'm concerned," I told him. "Just realistic." He nodded, accepting it, but I could see it still bothered him, how much he had changed. I made him an offer, half-serious. "I could shoot you." When he reacted with shock, I clarified, "In the foot or leg – just enough to get you sent home."

"Do you have a doctor?" he asked, and I told him no. "Then I'll pass – for now. I'm not anxious to operate on myself."

He had received a fair bit of medical training at the university. "That reminds me – why didn't you join the medical corps?"

Diego shuddered. "Because they're not doctors, they're butchers. Nobody who goes into those tents ever comes out alive – or at least, not for long." Jaime nodded, agreeing, and I couldn't argue; I'd heard about the poor medical "treatment" Spanish soldiers received. Worse than nothing. Diego went on, "I refused to be a part of that. If I'm going to treat someone, it's to save their life – or do my best at it, anyway."

"I take it that returning to the Spanish regiments is out, then?" I asked mildly, just to get a rise out of him. He glared and didn't bother answering. "That leaves two options, then. You could slip away and find a place to hide out – or simply start a new life there. You could get a quiet message to Father and Victoria to join you."

There were a whole lot of reasons that would be difficult, honor among the first. Abandoning home second. I could see them parade behind his eyes, but he said merely, "I'll think about it. What's the other one?"

"You could stay with us," I offered, all serious now. "I can make a place for you that wouldn't require you to attack or kill. There are many other things you can do to help. And we'd stay together. I find I don't want to lose you again," I admitted mildly.

Diego gave a lopsided smile back at me and nodded, echoing the sentiment, then rubbed his face with both hands. But he didn't answer right away. I could see how weary of everything he was. I sidestepped. "Putting aside the question of violence for a moment, how do you feel about the political situation?"

He thought a moment, then snorted. "I've been using everything I have just to survive, for so long... I haven't had any time to even think about politics. I don't know. I don't even know what's been going on in the world or even this part of it. I'll need to think, and talk about it."

I nodded, letting him be for a bit, and turned to Jaime. "What about you?"

Jaime had been following silently. He turned to Diego with a surprising question. "You were born in the old country, weren't you?"

Diego nodded, but added, "But Father brought me back to Los Angeles, to Grandfather's rancho, as an infant."

"Not me," came the reply. He turned to me. "I was born in Jalisco, near Guadalajara. Mestizos on both sides. My father was a farmer, dirt poor. I was fourth of six children. I can remember always being hungry, always struggling. Whenever my father got a little ahead, something always happened – crops failed, or someone got sick, or mama had another baby, or the tax collector or the army requisitioners came." This seemed like a long story, but I was patient. I had never known him to not have a point. "I joined the army basically to eat. And it seemed like it could be a good life. And it was, for a while. Until de Soto came to Los Angeles." Diego shifted uncomfortably at the name of his old enemy. "Eighteen years I was in uniform, until he threw it away." Jaime paused, remembering, his face rueful.

"But the point is..." He was looking into the distance. "I would like to see a world where farmers like my father are not ground into the dirt they plow. When they can feed their families, all of them, and not lose everything every year to the tax collectors – or the army. When that army does not come through and take everything, and burn the rest down." His eyes came back to me, and I saw the fire behind them. "I'm not Spanish. I'm Mexican. And I believe Mexico can be that world. It could be a good life for everyone." He hesitated, then made himself say what he'd been thinking, evidently for a long time. "But not while the Spanish Empire is in charge." He bit his lips and dropped his eyes then at what, to him, must still feel like treason. I waited, and he steeled himself and looked at me again. "I would fight for that. I would like to fight, for Mexico, to bring that world to men like my father."

I nodded at him, giving him the honor of his thoughts. "And would you fight for me?" I asked.

Jaime tipped his head to the side. I was puzzled for a moment. "Yes," he said, but then immediately, "but I will stay with my friend Don Diego. We will do as he decides." He didn't look at Diego, who was sending him a sharp, surprised stare.

I nodded again. "Fair enough. Loyalty is without price, and I would never argue with it." I turned back to my brother, who was still absorbing Jaime's pronouncement.

Diego raised his hands in surrender. "I need time," was all he said.

"Fair enough," I repeated. "Will you stay with us while you think it over?" He nodded. "Then I just need to ask one thing. Will you follow my orders in the meantime? Without arguing or questioning?" I couldn't have people hanging on that weren't with us, not on campaign.

Diego gave his wry smile. "We're still under your command, Capitán, until we decide what to do with us," he replied, echoing my own words. Jaime nodded agreement. "No, I won't argue," Diego added.

I smiled back. "Then get some sleep. We start early."

"How did I know that was coming?" he asked sarcastically, eyes rolling.

"Admit it," I laughed as I stood. "You don't like the military, but you've gotten used to it."

He glared up at me, and affected a wounded tone. "I think I liked you better when you couldn't speak."

"Ha! Too late!"


	11. Chapter 11

**Eleven**

The next day was one of the worst I'd ever seen. We set an ambush for the other company as they came out of a narrow canyon and began firing on them, trying to turn them back, when suddenly a troop of cavalry came galloping up from the rear of their column and started after us. We got to our horses and mounted up, swinging to meet them, but there were too many. I whistled the command to retreat at the run, thinking to lead them to another ambush point a mile or so back. Instead, they clung to our trail as if on tethers, and we had no chance to turn and counterattack.

I know when I'm outnumbered and outmaneuvered. The enemy commander had specifically brought along this cavalry to hunt us, and hunt us they did, tenaciously. I couldn't give you a detailed account of that day now, it was one long series of running skirmishes. First I split us into our two squads, sending Costa (with Jaime) to the west while my squad went east, both angling south after a time. Our meeting point, arranged as always early that morning in case of trouble, was a small column of rock detached from its cliff, about ten miles due south in the next valley.

The split worked as intended. About half of the cavalry went after each of us – but we were still outnumbered. After another bloody skirmish, losing two of my men to six of theirs, I whistled the scatter, and we split into teams of two, long-term partners, each team melting into the brush. We would gather, whoever survived, at the rock column. I signaled Diego to follow me. Alaric had taken off long before, and was circling high overhead, keeping an eye on me. I wouldn't be able to disappear if the enemy knew to watch him, but he was mostly high enough to just be one more hawk.

Up the two of us went, on that big mountain, angling sideways towards the pass high overhead, our horses scrambling through forest and galloping through rocky meadows. I glanced back and counted at least five enemy pounding determinedly after us. By sheer luck, Diego's horse – he'd gotten his former commander's gelding – was nearly as sturdy and game as Diablo, and kept up with effort, but he kept up until we were near the summit.

A bullet whistled past me – far to the side. I glanced back. They weren't gaining on us, but we weren't pulling away, either. I knew that on the far side of the pass, the trail became a switchback, inching down a very steep incline. All they had to do was pull up at the first elbow, and they could pick us off at any number of spots below them. We had to make a stand on this side.

Near the entry to the pass, I spotted a dip in the ground, surrounded by boulders, with a lower table beyond. I jumped off Diablo, grabbing all my weapons, and sent him to the table, Diego copying a beat behind. We slid into the dip and I tossed my spare guns and ammunition belts to Diego along with his former commander's sword, with one word: "Reload." He nodded and set to work, letting me do the firing. I didn't know if I was a better shot than him at that point, but I knew I wouldn't hesitate. I wasn't sure about him.

I crawled between two boulders and peered down. The enemy soldiers – there were now six – had likewise abandoned their horses at the edge of the trees, and were working their way on foot through the rocks, leapfrogging from one to the next. Professionals, I thought.

I got one in my sights and squeezed the trigger, seeing him fall a moment later. "One down, five left." I tossed my rifle to Diego and grabbed one he'd reloaded. Another shot. "Two down, four left." Then I swore – another had joined the hunt. "Five left."

They got better after losing two, and I couldn't get any more clear shots, though I wasted several bullets. Then, "They're coming. Back to back," I told my brother. He nodded grimly, tossed the rifles to one side to clear our feet, picked up a pistol and drew the sword, and met me in the middle.

One of the enemy paused at the lip to take a last shot at us, but I beat him, and he went down. "Four left," I said, then had no more breath to count as they were on us with their swords. I threw away the pistol and drew my dagger with my left hand.

The next minutes were a blur of blades. They were good – but not good enough. One by one, each of them fell at our feet, as my brother and I stood with our backs to each other, and fought them off. I can still remember the feeling of his back against mine, the knowledge that no one would get to me through him, or vice versa.

Finally all was done. We whirled, and panted, and waited for any more for several long minutes, before I crept again to the lip and looked carefully out. Not a man in sight. It was over. I checked Diablo to be sure, but he was munching peacefully on the long grass.

I turned back to see Diego had sat, hard, on a large rock, and I joined him. After a bit, catching our breath, I nudged him. "We still make a terrific team, no?" I asked, reminding him of the times way back in the early days, of Zorro and the kid holding off a group of bandits, he with his sword, me with only a leafless tree branch. I grinned sideways at him.

He nodded back, a half smile peeking through the exhaustion. "I think our roles have reversed, though," he commented, and I shrugged, giving him the point. Then his face fell. "And I'm sorry," he went on, tortured. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to be here."

I sighed. "I know... I know. You want to be back in your world, the world you're trying to create. Where there's no killing, no violence, and the law is supreme, and everyone knows it – and no one is above or outside of it."

He was hurt, insulted, although I hadn't been sarcastic. "And is there something wrong with that?"

"No, nothing. It's just that that world doesn't exist yet. And it won't, until everybody agrees on it. And that won't happen, as long as the Spanish Empire is in charge." I was getting angry now, and I had the shameful urge to throw it in his face. "You thought that Alcalde de Soto was an anomaly, a mistake that would be corrected. Well, he wasn't. He's the face of the Empire, doing exactly what they want and expect him to do, what they have always done. The Empire has been soaked in blood and power and misery for it's entire existence – since the days of Montezuma!"

He was stung, and fired back. "You're Spanish yourself!" and I laughed, a little maliciously.

"No, I'm not," I shot back, enjoying it. "I'm Italian!" And to prove it, I switched tracks in my brain and rattled off a few sentences in Italian to his shocked expression. Switching back to Spanish, I repeated what I'd said. "I understand it perfectly, but speak it like a child. I have no memory of learning it, and I sure as hell never learned it from you. I had to have learned it from my parents. It had to have been my first language. I know that because I didn't understand Spanish when I got my hearing back – I had to learn it then!" A part of my mind was telling me to stop, pull back, this was Diego, why was I yelling at him? But I couldn't stop. "I don't know whether we lived in Marenga or were passing through, but my parents were murdered there along with everyone else by the Spanish army!"

"You don't know that for certain – " he began, but I cut him off again.

"Yes I do!" I yelled, furious now. I pushed off the rock and a few steps away, then whirled to face him. I laid out the facts as I had them from Costa, much as I wrote here before, spitting the names of the regiment and its evil commander at him with something close to relish. "You never found out about it, but I did!" I finished. I stopped then and turned away, breathing hard, trying to get myself back under control, and get back to the point. "I'm Italian by birth, and Mexican by choice!" I threw it at him. "Why? Because when I found out where I came from, I could have left. I could have made my way to Italy and tried to find something, some family, some home, but I didn't. I stayed, and I fought. Against the Empire. Why?" I stopped again and dropped my voice, low and intense.

"Because I believe in your world too. I believe that world could happen. I believe Mexico could be that world – like Jaime does. But it won't be – it can't be – until the Empire is no longer in command. And I'm sorry – I am really, truly sorry – but that simply will not happen until enough blood has been spilled. Until the cost of them staying is high enough to choke them. That's the way of empires, and armies. You have to make the cost too high for them." I took a deep breath. "I have spilled my share of that blood, God knows, and I will pay for it, in this life or the next. And yes, it bothers me. It weighs on me in the night, all the men I've killed. I know how many that is, I can't escape it. They are my cross to bear. The fact that I picked that cross up knowingly and willingly does not make it any lighter." I was near tears now. "But I did pick it up. And I will continue to carry it, until it is done."

With that, I turned around and walked away to stand at the edge of the dip again, staring out into the sky above the valley below. I caught sight of Alaric as I stood there, smoothly winging his way up the slope to me. When he reached the circle I put out my fist to catch him. I stroked his chest feathers a few times, trying to calm down, then put him on my shoulder. As I did, I heard Diego behind me give a low, bitter laugh, and whirled around again to glare at him.

He held up a hand to stop me. "I'm laughing at myself, not you." He shook his head, snorting again – the bitterest sound I'd ever heard from him. "All these months, years, I've been using all I have just to survive. I can't even manage to think straight. And you just put about six heavy things on me all at once – and I can't even deal properly with any one of them."

The sight of him sitting there, deflated and demeaned, the man who I had nearly worshiped in my youth, punctured my fury. I snorted a rueful laugh and shrugged an apology.

"I'm trying," he said softly. "I just need a few days. Can you give me that?"

"You already have it," I reminded him. And a few minutes later, we gathered up our weapons and horses, and started making our way to the meeting point.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve**

The day, and the hunters, had cost us dearly. I lost seven men that day, including two entire teams, and several more wounded. Diego and I were the last ones to arrive at the pillar, riding in to Costa's – and everyone's – evident relief. After getting all the reports, I kept us there for the night; it was far into safe territory. I asked Diego to see to the wounded; he shot me an unreadable look and set to work, using their own ruined shirts for bandages.

I was feeling the shame very deeply of having led my men, who trusted me, into an ambush, and tried to tell them they could choose another to lead them, but the next morning, they were all there waiting for my signal. We mounted up, and began the several days' ride back to our valley, desperately needing a long rest.

The following day, I woke suddenly in the pre-dawn light. "I was about to wake you," the sentry whispered from nearby. "There's a storm coming," we said together, and I grinned at him. My nose for weather was still sharp.

I woke everyone up and set them to making small shelters against the rain. No use trying to ride through a storm. The last ones were finishing as the rain began falling in earnest, thunder and lightning lashing the sky above. We were a ways above the valley floor and away from the flooding river, but I made one team move their shelter out of where I could see a dry stream bed. Sure enough, before they had finished the new one, a rivulet had started through where they had been sitting minutes before, and I grinned at them. "Don't argue with the Capitán, boys."

I splashed over to where I had seen Diego and Jaime setting up their shelter. "Got room for one more?" I called out cheerfully.

"If he's skinny," grinned Diego, moving over.

"I think I still fit that description," I replied, slipping into the end he'd vacated. The muscles I had built over the years had never added much bulk, leaving me deceptively slender. "I bring gifts," I added, slinging the wineskin from my shoulder to Diego's lap.

He opened it and took a sip. "This is good!" I grinned, and he passed it to Jaime. "Where's Alaric?" he continued.

"Up in a tree somewhere being grumpy. He hates being wet, but is too stubborn and wild to come inside a small shelter." I looked around. No drips through the branches, dry ground beneath us, and plenty of room. "This is well made!"

"Don't look at me," my brother replied. He hooked a thumb to his right at a grinning Jaime. "My partner has an unexpected knack for survival skills."

"I'd say he does!" I leaned forward to ask, "Mind if I ask you to give a few pointers to the others? You two are the only dry men in the company!" He laughed and nodded.

A moment's silence, then Diego asked, amused, "Is it always like this with you?"

"What, the weather?" I was confused.

"No, the work. Are you constantly riding and fighting? Do you ever stop?"

"Yes," I grinned. This was the opening I'd wanted. "As a matter of fact, we even have a home base. And you'll be happy to know we're headed for it now. We'll be there in a couple of days. Well," I amended, grimacing out at the rain now pouring down. "A couple of days after we start. Nobody likes riding in this crap, and there's no need."

"What's it like?" Jaime asked.

"It's beautiful. You'll love it." I described our little pueblo in our hidden valley. "We'll go there and rest a while, practice some, make repairs, sharpen weapons... Eat some good food, drink some good wine – this is from our stores," I added, lifting the wineskin as it was passed back. Then I looked sideways at Diego, grinning. "Aaaaaaand..." I said, drawing it out, daring him to ask.

His eyebrows crept up, and he smiled back for the game, finally giving in as my grin got broader and more teasing. "And?"

"And... you can meet my wife."

Surprise and disbelief flashed across his face, and I brought my left hand up, showing off the ring he hadn't spotted. His reaction was all I'd hoped for. Surprise, delight... Jaime pounced then. "You said no metal. Diego had to cover his ring!"

"It's not metal," I laughed, stretching my hand over so they could see. "It's her hair, braided into a ring. She has one of mine, too." I pointed to my own long hair, pulled back and tied the way I usually wore it. Then I collected both their congratulations with a nod, answering their questions of her name and how long we'd been together.

"And how did you meet?" Diego asked. He was doing all the right things today, giving me all the right openings without knowing it. Or maybe he did.

"You mean you didn't hear?" I teased. "You didn't hear the stories of how el Halcón stole the wife of a Spanish officer?"

He shook his head. "I haven't paid any attention to the stories about el Halcón. Didn't know I needed to."

Jaime, though, had grinned and looked away, so I leaned forward to ask him directly. "You?"

He nodded. "Yes, I think I did."

I grinned, like a wolf. "And did you hear the ones where I kidnapped her, and held her for ransom, and when her husband couldn't or wouldn't pay, I did all kinds of nasty things to her, depending on who is telling the story?" He nodded again, and I got even sharper. "Did you hear any putting her in a bad light, making her out to be a traitor – or a whore for the partisans?"

"Felipe!" Diego began, shocked, but I held up a hand and stopped him, suddenly completely serious. "The truth, please," I told Jaime.

He searched his memory, and shook his head. "No, I really don't think I did. I've heard stories like that about women – you always do, in the army – but none connected with you that I remember."

I relaxed. "Good. Because that's the story he was trying to spread, to save his own honor." I saw Diego react to that with disbelief, but went on. "What about the one where he abandoned her on the battlefield, and I picked her up?"

Jaime, not catching my change of expression, laughed and said yes. "Good," I said again. "Because that's the real story."

Diego barked a surprised laugh at that. "Really? Oh, I have to hear this one."

I nodded. "That's why I came over here. I knew you would want to know, and I want you to know the truth. But I won't humiliate her by telling the story in front of her." By that, they knew something heavy was coming. I gave them the bare facts. "Marianna de la Cruz, born in Valéncia, España," I was giving the names her own lisped Castilian accent; Diego recognized it at least. "To the typical Spanish family: sons are everything, daughters are nothing. No affection or support growing up. Married off at just fifteen to a man more than twice her age, whom she'd met only once before – briefly." I took a breath, staring out into the rain. "He'd gotten a commission in some fancy city regiment and risen to coronel, all purely by family connections. Never saw a moment of combat – or any command of troops outside parades, until he was sent here to New Spain – probably over his protests."

"An empty, pretty uniform," Jaime commented, giving the typical soldier's description, and I agreed.

"Take all the traits you most despise," I told Diego. "Arrogance, cruelty, stupidity, ignorance, a liking for inflicting pain. Don't add them up, multiply them together and you have this coronel." I stopped, choosing my words carefully. "Of their time together, I will say only this. Most of the time, he ignored her. She was of less importance than his footstool. When he didn't ignore her – in private, thank God – any clear-thinking person would know his actions to be torture. Literally, not figuratively. My wife still bears scars, and always will."

Their eyebrows had shot up, shocked. "Jesus," muttered Diego, and it pricked me to sarcasm.

"Oh, some divine intervention would have been nice! Unfortunately, even His earthly representatives failed her. The priests she confessed to, needing help – even the bishop who married them – all of them told her only that it was her 'Christian duty' to submit to her husband, and if he was being... unkind – their words – it was her fault, for not performing her wifely duties with a 'happy and willing heart'." My bitterness was showing plainly, but I went even further. "I'm afraid you'll find that neither of us has much use any more for the church. They've failed both of us too many times."

Diego shrugged. Religion had never been terribly important to him, either – or to Jaime.

I went on, describing how he had dragged her literally everywhere with him, even on maneuvers in her little carriage, forcing the veil outside of it, and punishing her if she spoke to anyone – or the soldier she spoke to. They soon learned to stay away. At one point, I interrupted myself to say, "You will notice," and you may have noticed here, my grandchildren, "that I never say his name. I never will." It is my own little way of negating him, of not recognizing his evil existence.

And then I told them of the day I had found her, much as I wrote of it here, until we split from the company. "I had intended to take her to a convent I knew of, and put her in the safekeeping of the nuns. They would get word to her husband where she was." Then I grinned sideways at my listeners. "Our plans changed by the next morning," I said and left it at that.

"Our plans?" Diego had caught the word.

I nodded, and told him of our exchange of vows. "And we've been together ever since."

"What happened to the husband?" Jaime wanted to know, and I grinned even more broadly.

"I am so glad you asked that. Jaime, it is a little known fact that every once in a while, the universe works out the way it should. The good guys win, and the bad guys get what's coming to them."

"He did?" asked Diego unnecessarily, to prompt me to continue.

"He did indeed," I agreed, "and I did not dish it out to him – although I certainly would have been happy to. No, what happened was this. Somehow, I don't know how, he made it all the way to headquarters by himself. The generals were definitely not happy with him for losing an entire company to the partisans. They couldn't drum him out because of those family connections, but they were certainly sending him home in disgrace. Unfortunately for the coronel, he didn't make it. The group he was traveling to the port with, including some other military men and a couple of couriers, was attacked again – by General Guerrero's men, this time – he wanted what those couriers were carrying. And the word is that the coronel did it again – as soon as the attack was launched, he ran for it. But this time, he didn't make it. Shot in the back," I ended, clipping the words off, then murmured, "And lo, the angels did rejoice." I glanced sharply at Diego. "And before you chastise me for that, I would remind you of my wife's scars."

"I wasn't going to say a word," he said.

We were silent for a bit, then I turned back to him. "Enough. Your turn. You said you and Victoria were married?"

So he gave me his own story. After I had disappeared, he rode out in search of me for days, finding no trace, sometimes with Father, other times without. After a couple of days, Father found him one evening staring out a window, and he started in on Diego for not being enough help in the search – he thought. Diego lost control of his temper, nearly striking Father, as all his long frustration and humiliation burst inside his chest. "Stop, stop, stop!" he yelled, shocking Father into silence. He regained control, and then told Father to be quiet for five minutes. Then he took him into the parlor and showed him how to open the secret passage, which he had never known. Down below, in Zorro's chamber, the truth slowly dawned on Father, that his own son had been leading a double life. Diego did not describe the reconciliation, but I could guess it from his face.

"And then, a couple of days later, I told Victoria – " he began to go on, but Jaime stopped him, grinning at his friend.

"Oh, no, tell the truth, Diego!" He leaned over towards me. "Don Alejandro insisted. He invited Victoria to the hacienda, and left the two of them in the parlor, telling Diego that if he didn't tell her, he would himself."

I was grinning at that, laughing at my brother. I could picture the scene – it was just the sort of thing Don Alejandro would do. But I was also curious how Jaime knew it, and that showed in my face.

"Oh, he knows everything now," Diego told me. "I told him after we were press-ganged." There was no doubt now how close the two of them had become – like brothers. After a minute Diego went on. "So I took her down to the chamber, as well. I won't describe the rest of that day – but I gather it went something like yours, even to the handfasting at the end."

I laughed, but left it.

"It wasn't that easy, of course," he went on. "I couldn't admit to anything publicly, nor could 'Diego de la Vega' change his ways overnight. The three of us put on an elaborate charade the next few months. It was hardest on Victoria. She let it be known that the earthquake had made her realize she wasn't getting any younger, and she was tired of waiting for a man who never came, never took off his mask. Those were her words. She even saw a number of different men who came to call after word of that got out. But after several months, she surprised everyone by letting Diego de la Vega, of all people," his voice full of mock surprise, "win her heart and her hand. We married again in the church almost a year after the earthquake. She hired a manager to run the cantina and moved with me to the hacienda."

He sighed. "Things were good for a while. Zorro simply disappeared after the earthquake – everyone figured he had died. But de Soto wasn't buying it. He'd been quiet all that year, but after the wedding, he told both of us to our faces that he didn't believe she would ever have married anyone but Zorro. He all but accused me right there. Instead, we both played innocent. And he set about setting traps for me, which kept him busy for a couple of years. Finally, when they didn't work – well, I already told you. He framed both of us, and here we are," he finished, nodding sideways at Jaime.

We were silent for a time, staring out at the rain, then Diego gave a long, low, heavy sigh. "The very worst part of all of this..." I looked at him, surprised at the tears in his eyes. "The very morning I was arrested, she had just told me she was with child. I never even got to speak privately with her again, or hold her, or tell her goodbye. I don't even know what happened. I don't know..." He broke off, but I could guess. Women died in childbirth every day. "I've never dared let myself even think about the child. I just can't."

I didn't understand. "But you wrote, didn't you? Didn't she?" He pressed his lips together, closing his eyes in pain. It was Jaime who answered.

"The Spanish army never carries mail for convicts. That's what we were."

Understanding dawned. Los Angeles was so tiny, and so far away, no news could ever have reached him any other way, either. I put my hand on his arm. "I don't know what I can do, but we'll think of something."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thirteen**

The following evening on the trail back to our valley, we stopped for the night in a clearing deep in the forest. So far away from any of the enemy, we relaxed a bit, although we never let our guard down completely, always keeping guards on a sharp watch. I watched idly as the men chose various trees around the edge of the clearing to bed down under or just behind. Diego and Jaime, I saw, slipped together behind a small stand of large pines. They had not yet quite been accepted by the others, understandably, mostly because they hadn't decided yet whether they were going to join us. After a while, I wandered over to the same stand and spread my blanket on the near side.

A few minutes later, Costa joined me, throwing his blanket down and sitting on it with a huff. "What's your problem?" I asked mildly.

He threw me a disgusted look. "Mendoza's a clown," he growled, perhaps biting off even more. We had split up into smaller groups just before sunset, gathering wood and wild food and small game for our supper. As I had put Jaime into Costa's squad for the ride, they had ended up doing that chore side by side.

I laughed. "Yes, but he's my clown." Then I sharpened my voice. "And he's a hell of a lot better soldier than you give him credit for, so ease up."

"Better soldier? How's that?" he shot back, heavy on the disbelief.

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Eighteen years in uniform, rising to second in command of a garrison? Even if it was a sleepy little town, that's still saying something."

"And then busted out," my tenacious teniente observed.

"For standing up to a tyrant. Why does that sound familiar?" I needled Costa – he'd been busted himself for the same thing. I went on, "And then press-ganged, at his age? You know the hell they put convicts through. Half of them don't last a year. The fact that he made it all this time, and helped my brother, shows that is one tough little hombre. Probably tougher than he even realizes."

"And your brother?" he asked, not giving up.

"My brother – " I shot back with some heat, lowering my voice after a beat, " – is an aristo. Hidalgo, born and bred. He went to the University at Salamanca and learned swordfighting, for god's sake – and he's damn good, by the way, best in California, at least – so think twice before you challenge him." Costa was an expert swordsman himself, though he rarely showed off; he had continued my training in the weapon that Diego had begun all those years before. I went on, "But he was never intended to be a foot soldier. The fact that he's lasted this long shows that he's a tough little hombre, too. It wasn't exactly like Jaime was marching for him, or carrying his pack."

I waited a bit, but Costa had no more replies – although I could tell from his expression that he wasn't quite over his pique. So I laid it down: "I am not going to keep having this conversation with you, Costa. They're with us. Deal with it." Even if they hadn't quite consciously committed to the band or the fight yet, I knew already they didn't really have a choice, and would come around. They just needed time, especially Diego.

Costa glared at me a moment longer, then said icily, "Si, Capitán," stood up, snatched his blanket, and stalked across to another tree.

I watched him go, then let out an audible chuckle. I hadn't forgotten our hidden, silent audience. After a moment I asked at the same level as before, "How long are you two going to hide back there and pretend you didn't hear all that?"

I could practically see them glancing at each other. Finally Diego's voice floated out, "Is there anything you don't see?"

"If there is, I don't know about it." I waited, but there was no further sound. "Look," I said finally, staring out over the clearing. "I joke around a lot – life is too bloody short, and this one too bloody dangerous, to be always serious. But when I am serious, I do not say things I do not mean. So for what it's worth... You both have the confidence of your new commander." It felt strange to use that word with my brother, so much older and wiser than me, but it was the reality of the situation.

After a moment, Jaime spoke up. "It means a lot... to me. Something I haven't had in a long time."

I waited, and then Diego added thoughtfully, "Means almost as much as the love and respect of a brother."

"Well, you know you have that," I told him softly.

"Likewise," was his reply, leaving both of us, I think, feeling a glow I did not care to examine.

A couple of minutes later, there was still no movement from behind the trees, so I asked, curious, "Are you staying back there?"

Diego replied with a smile I could hear, "I am more comfortable at this moment than I have been since I left home. I've got a broad trunk at my back at just the right angle, there's a thick pile of needles cushioning my rear, and there's even a tree root at just the right place under my knees. Nope. I am not moving till morning."

I laughed, craning my neck to check the tree limbs above. "Well, just so you're aware, Alaric has taken a perch above your head. Be careful he doesn't shit on you."

Both of them snorted, then Diego added sardonically, "Now if that's not an appropriate comment on my current life, I don't know what is."


	14. Chapter 14

**Fourteen**

The next afternoon, as promised, we were nearing the valley. As we rode into the last village before ours, Sara, the wife of one of my guerrilleros, appeared unexpectedly, running to meet us with desperation etched into her face. She told us that our valley had been invaded the day before by a small band of soldiers on horseback, immediately striking fear for our women and children into all our hearts. She had managed to get all the children out – all but one, a tiny baby still with his mother – as she had been watching them all on a slope above the village, snuck out of the valley with them without the soldiers seeing, and brought them to that nearby village to wait and warn us. Keeping my fear for my beloved tamped down as much as I could, I ordered the men to prepare for an assault, leaving all our extra supplies stashed in the village.

So we rode up the trail in silence, and as we neared the east entrance, I brought the line to a halt, bringing Alaric off my shoulder and tossing him into the air to act as lookout. He winged up into the sky and disappeared above the trees.

Where was the sentry? He should have given some signal by now. I held up a hand, and a moment later heard the low moan from nearby. I gave the alert signal, and several of us jumped off our horses to carefully search. Under a tree we found him, Fallon, shot through the gut and slowly bleeding to death. He had crawled into the leaves and covered himself, trying to stay alive long enough to warn us, not knowing about Sara. "A troop of soldiers," he whispered hoarsely to me as I carefully held him. "Yesterday..." I waited for more, but he was gone.

I laid Fallon back down and went to Diablo, feeling the familiar ice-cold fury, and gave the signal for the split we had arranged before. Costa's squad was to take the north ridge, mine the south. We would sweep them clear of any sentries or hidden troops, then meet near the west entrance. Whoever got there first was to take care of any sentries on that path.

An hour later, we did meet. Four enemy down, Costa signaled, and I replied with three, plus the one there. All the way around, my gut had been twisting tighter and tighter, as I glimpsed the smoke rising from several chimneys below. That was another signal, that every one of our people knew. We always used the driest wood possible, always. Visible smoke was a signal that something was wrong. This was a direct warning and a cry for help.

I left a sentry of our own on the path, as I had in the east, and took my men all together back along the south ridge. The north was too steep, and I didn't want to set up a crossfire that could wound our own. Leaving the horses tethered just behind the ridgeline, we spread out and carefully descended in a line, coming across no one, and took up positions a few steps inside the woods. All was still in the pueblo among the widely-scattered buildings, except for the smoke rising, I now counted, from three chimneys, including my own and the big cantina where we all gathered and ate. My gut clenched again. Alaric had not come back to me, but if nothing appeared wrong to his hawk's eyes, he could have just taken himself hunting.

A man was sitting against the cantina wall, sleeping under a large straw hat. As I stared at this strange thing, I recognized old Marquez, the cantina owner who had come with us. I saw no movement, not even breathing. And then I saw the pool of blood beneath him. He had been killed, and put in that spot to lure us in.

Suddenly a hoarse, whispered shout came from one of the little houses. Someone was signaling others. A head poked out of the door, and then the whole man, peering up at where their own sentry should have been on the ridge. Enough. I gave my hawk's scream whistle, and half a dozen guns went off, and the man went down. More shouts erupted from here and there, and two more men burst out of houses to be gunned down. My men all stayed in the shadows.

Finally the door of my own house burst open, and a large, sloppy soldier in a stained corporal's uniform came out, dragging my own Marianna with him. Her hair was half down, her hands were bound behind her back, and her shirt had been ripped open to the waist, revealing her breasts to all who cared to look. His one arm was around her neck, dragging her along, with the other hand holding a pistol to her head. He was shouting at us, his unseen enemy, to come out, slurring his words drunkenly as he lurched along.

I saw her mouth move, and read her lips from old practice. "You are about to die," she rasped out through clenched teeth.

"Then I'll get a sweet feel first," he leered back, and his hand moved to her breast.

I saw nothing but red. "Take... him... out... " I growled to Costa beside me, my voice so low and vicious I wouldn't have known it myself. He was my best shot, an expert with his specially-made rifle. He kneeled down next to a tree, using it to steady the gun, and aimed.

"Ready," he said. "But she's in the way."

"On zero," I told him. I trusted her completely. "Three... two..." On one, I gave my hawk's scream whistle, and my beloved instantly reacted, buckling her knees and dropping down out of her captor's hold. Costa shot a heartbeat later, even as the corporal began to react, and the bullet went clean through his head, blowing out his brains.

But his pistol went off too as he jerked in dying. Marianna fell to the ground, and he landed half across her. She wasn't moving.

"ANNA!" I screamed, and launched myself across the ground, ignoring the bullets that began whistling around. I reached her and pushed the corporal away, then tried to gather her up. A bullet had crossed her skull, and it was bleeding badly.

Then suddenly Diego was beside me – he'd run right after me. He grabbed her legs, saying tersely, "Get her to safety!" I got my arms around her shoulders then, and we lurched up and back towards our house, the closest one. Around the side we went, and laid her gently against the wall. I was beside myself, only able to say her name. But Diego was already working. He'd ripped a sleeve off his own shirt and was holding it to her head.

"It's only a crease. Scalp wounds always bleed like mad. Go, I've got her." I didn't move, and he whipped around and grabbed my jacket, jerking me to his face. I gasped – I had never seen him so intensely furious. "Felipe!" he yelled in my face. "I've got her. You've got work to do. GO!" And he shoved me away.

That brought me to my senses, or at least, sent the icy fury roaring through my ears again, and I was all business. I ripped off my jacket to lay over her bare chest, leaned over and kissed her unresponsive lips, grabbed Diego's pistol from his hip, and went.

The next time is a blur. I know I busted through my own back door – I had to repair it the next day – and shot the man who was firing through our front window. I looked around and saw only one of our women, Sofia, hiding in a corner, her shirt also torn, and told her, "Marianna's at the side. Go help her!" before ripping the front door open and charging out. The rest of my men were swarming out of the trees and sweeping through the pueblo, and I joined them.

Half an hour later, it was all over. I had lost no one other than the original sentries, but all of the invaders were dead on the ground.

I thought.

I went back into my little house and turned toward the bed – and saw her there, sitting up, eyes open, her head wrapped in a white bandage. Sofia looked up at me and got out of the way, and I dropped all my remaining weapons on the floor and melted at the side of the bed, holding Anna and making sure she was all right. She was still wearing my jacket. Her only wound, she swore, was the scratch on her head. She had been leered at, but not touched.

I sat back, unsure how to take that with her clothes in the condition they were, when a new shout arose from outside.

"Where is he?" I heard a man roar amid the noise. "I'll kill him!" I thought I knew the voice, and when I went back out, I was sure.

Several dirty, ragged men were in a tight circle, surrounded by my own soldiers. In the middle, shouting, was Cobra. The man who had briefly led my company, until they turned to me.

Between his angry shouts and Costa's terse report, I realized that Cobra was the one who had found our valley hideout, then led the Spanish soldiers there. Then he and his men had hidden themselves up the valley, waiting to see what would happen. "I knew they were too weak to take you! But I am not! Come face me!" He was cold sober, but acting drunk on anger, fear, and the whiff of power. My men had taken all their guns, but he was holding his knife, a long, deadly blade, in one hand.

I nodded silently and started towards him, motioning everyone else away. Costa grabbed my arm and spun me around. "You don't have to do this, Capitán. None of us will follow him!"

"I know that," I told him sharply, then softened a bit. This was Costa, my closest friend and second in command. "This isn't about the future. This is about the past. This is about my showing him up, making him a fool. He's going to keep following me, and keep challenging me, until one of us is dead. It won't be me." I started to turn, then looked back again. "If I don't make it, you're in command. Remember the goal. And get him home again." I jerked my head towards Diego, who had come out to stand nearby. I could tell he wanted to argue, too, but I just shook my head at him. Costa was livid at the charge, but tamped it down. When I started again towards Cobra, he grabbed my arm again, whispering fiercely into my ear.

"Watch him, especially when he goes down. He always comes up with dirt – always – and throws it, and makes a cloud to hide his actions. He's two-handed, and as fast as the snake he's named for."

"Good to know," I said, and walked on to meet the challenge, drawing my best fighting knife from my boot.

I could not give you a step-by-step description of that fight if I wanted to. We lunged, we grappled, we feinted and struck. I threw him down, and he came up with dirt, but Costa had warned me, and I was watching his hand. I shielded my eyes and skipped away from his lunge. He scored me twice, on chest and arm, but neither was deep. I cut him deeper, and it slowed him down. He switched hands in the dust, almost catching me with the knife in his left hand.

As he tossed it back to his right, there was my opening. I whirled on one foot, kicking out with the other and knocking the knife from his hand. I followed it in the move with my own knife, reaching in to slice deeply across his neck. And then, as he stood there trying to breathe, I whirled one more time and caught his temple with my heel. Down he went with a dull thud, and it was over.

I stood for a moment in the silence, catching my breath, then walked over to his remaining men. "Go," I said, simply. "Go home, go south, go to Venezuela, go to hell. Take that carrion with you. And if I ever... see any of you again... my face will be the last one you see before God's." I stared at each for a moment, imprinting their faces in my memory, then turned and walked back to my house.


	15. Chapter 15

**Fifteen**

Later that day, after the parents had brought their children back from the outer village, I called everyone together at the cantina, fighters and families. We had built a very large roof over the ground next to the building, where we could all gather at once at the long tables to eat. I had Costa give the tallies. Sixteen enemy dead, including Cobra. Five – Cobra's men – released and seen well down the trail. Three of our men dead, the two original sentries and Marquez. Four of our people wounded, one serious.

I turned to Diego at that. I knew he had become our medico and taken care of the wounded. He listed the wounds, including Anna's, and Selma's, who was the worst. She had grabbed a pot of boiling stew without pads when my attack whistle sounded and thrown it on one of the soldiers, blinding him, but leaving her with very serious blistering burns on her hands. He was keeping her sedated with the laudanum we had, and I told Gino to hand the supply we had captured this last trip over to him.

Then I asked Costa where the enemy dead were. He had already had them all stripped of anything useful and taken up to the ravine and tipped in, with a small rock slide started to cover them. Our three had been brought in and were laid behind the cantina. I said we would lay them to rest in the morning.

After that, wanting to lighten up the atmosphere a bit, I asked, "Whose idea was the smoke?"

Sofia stood, smiling. "It was Marianna's. You should have seen her. I started to get some wood from the usual pile, and she stopped me, saying 'No, Sofia, not that one. The skunk got into it, remember? My house smells bad enough with these men, I don't want it to stink worse! Use the new wood!' " Everyone was laughing by then, and I looked down at my bride and grinned for her cleverness, then sobered.

"You were not attacked? None of you?" It was too personal, but everyone needed to hear the answer. Marianna shook her head, but again, it was Sofia who answered.

"No. We were not raped. They were going to, but Marianna convinced them that it would hurt you all much more to have to watch. So they waited, and used us as bait." She caught my skeptical glance at her shirt, a new one now, unripped, and added, "Yes, they exposed us all, and leered. But that was all."

I looked again at Marianna, and she nodded. "You weren't wrong about the hurt," I told her. "But I'm glad that it worked."

Sofia, the most forward of all our women, wasn't finished. "Capitán. Will we have to move now?" she asked bluntly.

I looked around and sighed. "I don't know. It's not my decision. It's all of ours – we will make it together. But not tonight. Let's wait a few days, and rest, and talk about it. We're in no immediate danger. We'll see what we come to." I knew none of us wanted to leave our home – I certainly didn't. But we needed to carefully assess the new danger, now that we had been discovered and invaded once. Would it happen again? I asked the women if any of the soldiers had given any indication that they had spread the information on our valley to anyone else. All of them agreed they had heard nothing of the sort, and I nodded, relieved.

"But whether we stay or go, some things need to change," I went on. "Starting tomorrow, I want all the women to learn how to handle guns. I know most of you already do," and many of them nodded, "but it needs to be perfected. Men, I want each of you to teach your wife to clean, load, and fire all of your guns until they can do it as well as you." Some hooted at that, but I stared them down. "You women are the first line of defense for our home, whenever we're away, whether it's here or somewhere else. And starting tomorrow, you're going to get better at it." I asked Costa where the invaders' guns had been stored – everything they had was now stacked upstairs above the cantina, in our storage rooms. "Pass them out to the women," I ordered, "along with the right ammunition. Those are your own weapons now," I told them.

* * *

We buried our compadres after that, and then held our usual wake for them that night. The next day, I let everyone drift toward the practice ground as usual. This was a large open area to one side of the buildings, trampled flat and level by our feet. I stood in the middle and stretched, and then grinned at Diego when he came up unarmed, all unsuspecting. I called to Chuy to toss me two swords from our little armory, caught them both, whirled around, and tossed one to Diego. "Let's see what you've got," I told him.

"I'm rusty," he warned.

"Best thing for rust is sweat!" I taunted, and leapt towards him. He was taken aback, but defended himself – adequately. After a minute, I beat his sword down, angry.

"You're not even trying! Come on!"

That finally pricked him into action, and he came after me. That was more like it. We parried back and forth a few times, working up a sweat – I know he was surprised I had learned enough to keep up with him as he went faster and faster. Finally he stepped in and hooked my sword out of my hand. That would have ended it had he brought his back immediately, but he paused – and I whipped around, kicked his sword out of his hand, and ended my turn with the dull spine of my dagger against his throat. He hadn't even seen me draw it.

"Next time don't stop to celebrate!" I told him, teeth gritted.

"Noted," he said, calm on the outside, seething within.

I laughed at him outright as I backed off. "Good job," I said, needling him. "Work with Costa – he needs the challenge." And I turned my back on my brother, leaving him to stew, and called Jaime out. By then both of them realized I was testing them, as I did all new men.

Jaime walked forward. "I'm no good with a sword," he said.

"What are you good with?"

"Knives," he admitted. I tossed my sword back to Chuy, and caught the two wooden daggers he tossed back. Swords were one thing, but I wasn't going to risk anybody's skin on sharp knives until I was more sure of what we both were facing.

He was surprisingly good, was Jaime, and fast – not as fast as Cobra, but I wouldn't want to face him in a real fight. And in the end, he caught me, with a move I'd never seen before. I stopped, surprise and shock on my face, his dagger point dug into my stomach.

"Pay him!" came the call from the watching circle. I laughed, backed off, threw down my dagger, and dug a peso out of my pocket.

Jaime was surprised. I explained to him and Diego, "I have a standing offer to all of my men. If they can touch me in the practice ring, with hand, foot, or whatever weapon, I pay them a peso. This is only the fourth one I've ever paid out since I took over." I started to hand it to Jaime, who reached, grinning, then I stopped. "There's a catch, though."

He grimaced. "There always is. What is it?"

I laughed and dropped the peso in his outstretched hand. "You have to teach me that trick – me and others. And how to block it. You'll never catch me with it again."

He laughed and agreed. I called two others, our best knife fighters, out of the ring, and had Jaime show us the move, over and over, till we could each do it. Then we figured out the block. He had learned it, he said, as a street lad in Jalisco.

After that, I set them all to practicing as they would. A bit later I wandered over to Diego, leaning against the fence.

"Now you know our secret," I told him conspiratorially, smiling slightly. He frowned. "We are all of us good, and good at different things," I went on. "But none of us thinks he is so good that he has nothing left to learn, or doesn't need to practice. I learned that from you." He half-smiled at me, and I went on. "I learned a lot from you," I said pleasantly. "Including never giving up." Suddenly I dropped the smile and leaned in, showing my anger. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I hissed. "When I found you the other day, you had given up. You were just lying there, waiting for someone to come along and finish you. You're still waiting." He was shocked, and getting angry from the needling, and I kept pushing. "Well screw that. Get up. Keep trying. Because if you get back up, and keep trying, you will win your way back to where you want to be. I believe that. Because I believe in you. You taught me that, too, by believing in me, and teaching me to believe in myself." I paused, seeing the affronted anger in his eyes. Good. "I can't give that back to you. I don't know how. You're going to have to find it in yourself." Another pause, and then I leaned in till I was inches away, staring daggers into his eyes. "Start looking."

And with that, I turned and left him. [Why were you poking at him so hard? - CdlV] Because I wanted my brother back – the one I remembered, full of fire and joy and determination. This man was beaten. I saw the body before me, but not the spirit.

A few minutes later, I looked back. Costa was leaning on the fence next to Diego, talking low. As I watched, Diego half-smiled and snorted. I grinned. I could always count on Costa to back me up, even if he wasn't doing so deliberately.

Wandering through the cantina a short time later, as the women were making lunch, I told them to send Diego and Jaime up to my house with a couple of bottles of wine each, rather than feeding them. And so, an hour later, the two of them came knocking on our open door.

"Come in," I called, pulling several wooden cups from the top shelf of our little sideboard and handing them to Marianna. "Just getting out the fine crystal."

They had met, more or less, the day before, but I introduced them again, formally, Don this and Sergeant that. Diego took Marianna's hand and bowed over it, and she replied proudly, her eyes twinkling, "Welcome to our grand hacienda!"

After that, they both tried to outdo each other with talk of chandeliers and architects, till I broke in. "All right, enough! She can go on as long as you can," I added to Diego.

"Oh, is that where you learned it?" my beloved gave me away.

We sat around our little wooden table, and I proposed a toast. "To the two best words in the Spanish language: family and friends," tilting my cup towards Diego and then Jaime.

"To which I will only add one, if I may," Diego said. "Home." None of us could disagree with that.

So we spent the long afternoon, sipping wine and nibbling on apples, nuts, cheese, and fresh-baked bread. It remains one of the happiest memories of my life. We caught each other up on all our stories, and I at last was able to tell Diego of my birth name, Marco.

"You don't use it, though?" he asked.

I told him of my devastation at the time wanting to tell him then and thinking I never could. "I think I'll start using it as my middle name now, though." And he 'christened' me with a toast, Felipe Marco de la Vega. I squinted at him for the last name, and it was then that he told me that Father had at last written out the petition for adoption after I had "disappeared", and made it official, making me legitimately _Don_ Felipe Marco de la Vega. Marianna and I shared a grin at that; the name and title I had introduced myself to her with really did belong to me. "I never doubted it for a moment," she lied, but I forgave her.

Near evening, there came a lull in the conversation. We were all talked out. Diego put his cup down, thoughtfully, then looked across at me. "All right, Capitán," he said softly. "I'm in. You convinced me."

I was confused by the comment out of nowhere for a moment, then caught on and grinned. "What do you have in mind for me?" he asked.

I had already figured that out, long ago. "I'm going to put you in charge of the valley defenses. You're still all right with defense?" I checked, and he nodded, only the slightest reluctance. "And I want you to be our medico." At that he nodded again, albeit ruefully.

"I'd expected that."

"Can you defend the valley? We'd all prefer to stay." He gave it some careful thought, then nodded. "And drill the women and those who stay? I'll leave behind a few more men each time from now on. You'll command them if it's needed?" He straightened at that. I was offering him command, something he had never had, even back home. Even Zorro had always ridden alone.

He nodded again, a new light in his eyes that had been missing all this time.

I turned to Jaime then. "And you, amigo. Will you stay in the valley, or ride with us?"

He glanced at Diego, who shrugged, then turned back to me and straightened with pride. "I will ride with you, Capitán. I want to fight, for Mexico." I shook both of their hands, and Jaime asked, "Is there an oath to take?"

"I don't believe in oaths," I told him. "They're just words. I believe in actions."

And so they both joined my partisans.


	16. Chapter 16

**Sixteen**

We only stayed in the valley a few more months after that, not chased out by another invasion, but by distance. The war had moved on away from us, too far to travel. And it was heating up. General Guerrero, calling me in one day the next spring for a conference, said more and more men were flocking to his banners, and strange events were moving across the waters, which might force things from that side. But he needed my men closer, to help around the edges as we always did. So we packed up and left our lovely valley, moving two hundred miles to the southwest and settling quietly into and around another village, after the families (and Diego) had tried life in the big camp of followers for a few days and found it untenable. The fighters and I could not return to this new village as often, so Diego and two others undertook to bring us food and supplies every two or three weeks, a long and dangerous ride each way – especially for him, if he had been caught by the enemy. I do not minimize his courage in doing this.

I had a serious problem, however. It was much more dangerous in the new area, dangerous for both the fighters and the families. And the living was much rougher. My lady was struggling, and I didn't want her to.

And she was pregnant. We had told no one yet, but she would soon start to show.

Things came to a head not long after that, when a company of the Spanish army came through, destroying crops and houses in their wake. We were lucky that not more than a handful from the surrounding area were killed. Diego marshaled his "troops", tucking the families into their hiding places and standing unobtrusive guard over them with his men, but the army managed to miss them by a quarter mile as they rode through the town. I was away with my fighters at the time, and we raced home when we heard, getting back just after they had moved on, heading towards a battle with Guerrero's forces. We let them go and began picking up the pieces.

Unfortunately, this proved nearly literal. They had left behind some mines in shallow ditches. One of them killed a farmer. And another took off the front half of Jaime Mendoza's right foot.

Diego operated on his friend, closing off the veins, folding over and sewing the skin, and cauterizing the wound. He kept him under for a few days with laudanum to escape the worst of the pain, then let him come to. I visited him in the makeshift hospital room as I had done every day, a few days later, standing at the foot of his bed.

Jaime looked up at me, deep pain – both physical and emotional – etched in his face. "I am sorry, Capitán," he said. "I can no longer fight for you, for Mexico. I am crippled. I am useless."

I let my anger at his attitude show in my face. "You are not crippled," I told him flatly. "And you are most definitely not useless. In fact, you are more use to me now than ever. There is something I need you to do, that I trust to no one else."

He exchanged puzzled glances with Diego, sitting beside his bed. "What can I do?" he asked simply, waving a hand at his ruined foot. A moment later, he amended it. "What do you want me to do?"

I closed my eyes, choking. "I don't want you to do this. But I need you to." Taking a deep breath, I looked straight at him again. "I need you to escort my beloved home to Los Angeles, put her in Father's – in Don Alejandro's care, and stay there to guard her. And our child, when it comes."

Diego shot out of his chair. "She's pregnant?" I nodded. "Does she agree to this?" he asked, disbelieving.

"She is as unhappy as I am, but we both have agreed," I replied. No need to give him all the phases of that talk, or the final shades of agreement. "She will go, and wait for me there."

"And you trust me to do this?" Jaime asked quietly, unbelieving. "It is a very long way." That was an understatement. From where we were, it was several hundred miles of uncertain territory.

"I am going to ask Gino to go with you, perhaps one or two others, to see you both safely there and in Father's care, and then return." I turned to Diego. "With news, and messages."

Diego sat, hard, and covered his mouth with his hand. We had never been able to contrive any communication with those at home. Now we would find everything out.

I turned back to Jaime. "Will you do this for me, amigo?" I asked quietly, my voice shaking.

He straightened up. "Sí, Capitán. I will guard her with my life," he said, a little melodramatically, but I knew he meant every word, with deadly seriousness.

"Thank you," I said softly, and went out.

They left a few days later, in a wagon. Jaime had healed enough that he could walk, slowly, short distances with a cane Diego carved for him – enough that my brother was certain he was out of danger and would only continue to heal. In the meantime, one of my fighters, Miguel Cordoba, had come to me. His wife had recently given birth to their third child, and he could no longer bear the danger. I asked them to accompany the others to Los Angeles, promising that Don Alejandro would help them settle somewhere. I had no doubt that he would. They agreed, and so it was a party of eight that left, the women and children in the wagon, with Anita Cordoba and Marianna taking turns driving, and the three men riding along beside on horseback. It was as safe a group as I could manage without surrounding my beloved with an entire army, of which I had none at my disposal, and would have drawn too much attention, besides. At least she had the dog I had given her a few months before to guard her; Chico had proven his worth already in a few minor confrontations. I am yammering, even now, to cover my remembered distress.

I stood at the side of the road, watching them out of sight, and staring after them long after they had passed over the crest of the far hill. Tears were streaming down my face. Somehow I had become convinced, though I did my best to hide it from Marianna, that I would never see her again, never make it home. I choked out as much to Diego, standing beside me.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard," he said flatly. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Brothers.

"Felipe," he went on, as if we were discussing the weather. "I don't believe I have ever said these words to you before, but here goes. Let's go get drunk."

I had to laugh then, though the tears still threatened. "No, Diego," I replied. "You have definitely never said that to me before. And I don't get drunk." I still don't. I have never liked the loss of control. "But right now, that sounds pretty good."

And so we did.


	17. Chapter 17

**Seventeen**

Two months crawled by. Three. Four. I became more and more depressed and desperate by the day, convinced that disaster had struck. They had never made it to Los Angeles. I would never see her again, or the baby. I should have never sent her off, let her go. How could I have been so stupid? My men learned to avoid me and my hair-trigger temper. Diego was the only one who dared come near, and he stayed silent to avoid my sharp tongue.

Finally, finally, near the end of the fifth long, unendurable month, a miracle. A man came riding into our camp, dusty and tired. It was Gino.

I yelled for Diego – it was one of the few days he was with us, resting from his journey delivering supplies – and ran towards Gino. He saw us both coming, and a huge grin spread across his face, and he gave us the "all is well" sign from across the clearing.

I nearly collapsed with relief, but I made it to his side. He slid off his horse, reached up around his neck, and pulled something off, handing it to Diego. It was a round golden locket, an inch across.

Diego's eyes closed against the tears. "Open it," said Gino.

"I know what it is."

"Open it," he insisted. Diego pried it open, and nearly dropped it.

Gino pointed to a black coil in one half. "That is the hair of your wife," he said. "And that," pointing to the other, "is the hair of your son."

"My... son?" He was thunderstruck, and Gino grinned again, bigger than ever.

"Sí. Paulo. Four years old, big and strong, smart as a whip."

I grabbed Diego by the shoulder, smiling, then turned to Gino. "Marianna?" I asked. "The baby?"

He shook his head. "I only stayed two days, Capitán, and she was still two months away. I have been a very very long time on the road back. It took long to find you again." The armies, and our company, had drifted over a hundred miles from "our" village where the travelers had left us. "But she was well," he went on. "And so is your father, and Doña Victoria." The name seemed to reassure Diego, and he took a quick breath.

"I have letters for you both, and messages, in case the letters were seized." He turned to Diego again. "Your wife says to tell you, she would not wait for a masked man. But she will wait for her husband, until the stars fall from the sky, if need be." Diego's face crumpled, and I knew he was holding himself together with as thin a thread as I was.

Gino turned to me. "At first, Doña Marianna said she had nothing to tell you that had not already been said." He grinned. "But then, before I left, she told me to tell you this. She is certain the child she carries is a boy." He paused, and laughed, enjoying this. "Because he kicks like his father." I had to laugh with joy, though my tears were as close as my brother's.

Then Gino turned serious. "Not all my news is good, Señores. Your father has lost much property. But he says to tell you, he will hold on to what he has, and he will keep your wives and children safe, until you return. And he says to tell you how proud he is of both of you, and that you have his support."

With that, Gino handed each of us a folded paper, saluted, and turned to find water for himself and his dusty horse.

I will not tell you the contents of my letter, or the note from Father tucked inside it, they are for me alone. Nor did I ever see Diego's, but from that day, he was a new man. The crippling fears that Victoria could not wait, or had found another, or that she or the baby, or both, had not survived childbirth, were at last wiped away.

Later that night, Gino sat with us both over supper, and told us what had happened when they arrived. I did not witness this, you understand, but this part is important to this story, so I am repeating here what he said.

They arrived near the pueblo late one afternoon, coming up the road that led past the Hacienda de la Vega. They pulled off and went up the drive around the bend, and stopped. The hacienda was obviously empty, deserted. Thick dust lay all around, all the windows were closed and filthy, no signs of life anywhere. Every bit of land near the house, formerly neatly-kept lawn, was plowed up and turned into vegetable gardens. What in the world had happened?

They pulled up anyway, and opened the large barn behind the house. This had been turned into storage, with furniture, barrels of grain, and bales of hay and straw stacked neatly in the stalls. The weary travelers conferred, and decided that most of them would wait, hidden in the barn, while Gino went on into the pueblo to scout.

He returned an hour later, relieved. He had found the de la Vegas. Don Alejandro and his daughter-in-law, Victoria, were running the cantina she still owned, and living above it with Victoria's young son, Paulo. (Diego and I stared at each other in complete shock at this. Father, El Patrón, tending bar? How much had he lost? But Gino went on.)

The Cordobas decided to wait there in the barn, it was comfortable enough, even overnight. Gino, on his horse again, and Jaime and Marianna in the wagon, went into town to greet Father. They parked in front of the cantina and walked in through the door, Jaime in the lead, finding it nearly empty, just before closing. Gino said there was no mistaking the two men facing each other, even though he had never seen either one before. Don Alejandro was standing in front of the bar, confident, proud – and angry; while the gaunt, menacing man before him, issuing some sort of threat, could only be the alcalde, Ignacio de Soto. Victoria was standing behind the bar, listening with a taut face while holding a small boy on her hip, his face buried in her neck. All turned to see who had walked in.

The newcomers were not prepared for the reactions when the three saw Jaime Mendoza. Victoria blanched and gave a small scream, her free hand flying to her mouth, while Don Alejandro clutched the bar and muttered, "Madre de Dios!"

Alcalde de Soto, though, turned red and snarled at Jaime. "You! You're supposed to be dead!"

"Dead?" Jaime echoed, knocked off-balance by the accusation.

De Soto stalked towards the three at the door, angry and menacing. "I received a dispatch, saying both you and de la Vega had been executed. For cowardice!" He crowed the last word as though it were proof of the deed.

Jaime maintained his calm. "Well, obviously, the dispatch was incorrect. I am here."

"And Diego?" asked Don Alejandro, his voice shaking.

Jaime looked at him and smiled. "He lives," he said simply. Don Alejandro looked as though he himself had received a reprieve from a death sentence, while Victoria began to cry softly. The boy, confused, held her more tightly.

De Soto had himself again. "Then why are you here? You deserted, instead?"

Jaime slowly turned red, furious at the man who had once commanded him. He planted his cane beside his right foot, moved that foot before the other so he could pry his boot off with his toe – Marianna jumped forward to steady him with her hands on his back and arm – and drew his mangled foot out. He wore a sock, but was obviously missing all his toes and then some. De Soto turned a little green when he looked at it. "I think even you, Señor, would have difficulty arguing that I am fit for duty with half a foot missing!" Jaime growled. He looked down again to stamp the boot back on.

De Soto recovered quickly, though, glancing at Marianna, and then down at her obviously-swollen stomach. "Well, apparently not everything was blown off," he sneered, and all three visitors stiffened with the insult. Marianna slipped her best blank expression on her face and stared icily at the far wall as she dropped her hands back to her sides. "So you brought your... wife... back here, did you?" de Soto finished up, dripping oily insinuation.

Jaime stared hard at de Soto for several long seconds, then said simply, low and cold, "I... owe... you... nothing!" He turned to Marianna and made to usher her past the alcalde, with a courteous "Señora." Gino had backed up to the wall and was doing his best "I'm not important" impression, hat in hand, looking down at the floor.

Jaime and Marianna walked stiffly past de Soto to Don Alejandro. When the alcalde didn't take the hint and leave, they looked at each other and nodded. The cover story we had concocted before they left would have to be used. Jaime turned to Father, beginning as he had practiced it along the way. "Don Alejandro, forgive me for dropping this onto your head with no warning," he began. Father, of course, brushed it off graciously. Jaime launched into the story. "You have many relatives left in Spain, do you not, Don Alejandro? Including some named de la Cruz?" He tipped his head forward, looking straight into Father's eyes, trying to pass the hint.

Don Alejandro was never stupid. He caught the hint, recovering smoothly. "Yes, distant cousins. I haven't heard from them in quite a while. But then, the mail has been... disrupted as of late." He said the last distinctly towards de Soto, who was frankly listening near the door, but the man didn't rise to the bait.

Jaime continued. "I am sorry to tell you this, then, but one of them, a young man named Juan de la Cruz, was sent here to New Spain with the army – he was a teniente. He ended up in my company, and we got to talking one night, and discovered we had you in common. So he asked me, if anything ever happened to him, if I would bring his widow to you, as he knew of no one else in the entire country. And sadly, he was killed in the same action that took my foot. So..." He turned to Marianna and introduced "Señora de la Cruz" to her supposed late husband's distant cousin.

Father took both her hands in his and smiled kindly. "Welcome, cousin. I am sorry to meet you under such tragic circumstances, but of course, I will help you in any way I can. My home is your home."

De Soto snorted at that. "Getting a little crowded here, isn't it?"

Don Alejandro turned again and said smoothly, pointedly polite, "No house, however unusual, is ever too small for family. But then, you wouldn't know that, would you, de Soto. You have no family."

The alcalde glowered at him, then turned on his heel and at last stalked out the door. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. Don Alejandro tipped his head towards Gino, asking Jaime, "Is he with you?"

"Sí. That is Gino."

"Then, Gino, would you mind shutting and barring that door? We are closed." Father turned to Victoria, who at last came around the bar with the boy. She would get no closer to de Soto if she could help it. "Is the back door locked?"

She nodded as she turned to set the boy down on the bar keeping one arm around him. "Always."

Jaime checked, "Is there anyone else here? Upstairs?"

Father smiled at him wryly. "We no longer rent rooms out. We live up there. No, there is no one."

Victoria broke in then, desperately. "Is it true, Jaime? Please, is it true? Diego lives?" When he assured her it was, she choked, turning to the boy.

"Mama?" came his bewildered cry.

"Your father lives," she told him in a whisper. The two of them wrapped their arms around each other again, holding on tight. "Shhh," she added. "I will tell you later."

Don Alejandro smiled tearfully at her back, then turned back to Marianna and his smile turned kind. He still held her hands. "So, my dear, as I do not have any relatives named de la Cruz, which I think you know, who are you really?"

Marianna smiled back, gratefully. "Thank you, Don Alejandro, for going along with it. We are sorry for including you in the deception, but it was needed." She took a deep breath. "We are charged with telling you the truth, every bit. So first, I must tell you, that my husband – who is very much alive – is your adopted son, Felipe."

At this most unexpected name, Father's eyes filled with tears. "Felipe lives? How? We thought..." He could say no more.

"The next thing I must do for him is beg your forgiveness. He thought – his mind was playing tricks on him again – he thought that both you and Don Diego were dead, killed by the earthquake. He thought he saw you. That is why he left that day and never returned. He thought he had nothing to return to. He did not know the truth until he ran into Don Diego, only a few months ago."

"I will never forget the look on both their faces," Jaime put in, and Father turned to him.

"You were there?" Jaime nodded. "And it is true? It really is Felipe?"

"I would not have known him at first. It is as though twice seven years has passed for him. But yes, it is Felipe."

"Please forgive him," my beloved urged.

Father had closed his eyes, struck through the heart. He opened them again and squeezed her hands. "Of course I forgive him." (When Gino told us this, I had to get up for a moment. It struck me harder than I had even thought it would.) Father went on, guessing, "And he sends you to me, to look after you?" She nodded.

"The next thing I must tell you is perhaps not so welcome. But I am charged with the truth." Marianna took a deep breath. "I must tell you, Señor, that your sons have joined forces, and are fighting together." She paused. "But not for Spain. They fight for Mexico – for freedom."

At this, the trickiest part, Father stood stock still for a moment, staring at her. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and said, "Thank God. Then they are both on the right side." Opening his eyes again, he looked at Jaime. "I never thought I would hear myself saying this – and you understand, I cannot say so publicly – but I can no longer support a regime that would treat so many thousands – perhaps millions – of families the way they have treated mine." Jaime nodded, and Don Alejandro turned once more to Marianna, guessing again. "So this is the reason for the false identity?"

Marianna nodded again. "De la Cruz was my girlhood name. My husband is well known. Not as de la Vega, but as the name he fights under. You see..." She bit her lip, then took a breath and went on. "They are not soldiers, fighting under General Guerrero. They are partisans. And my husband... he is known as el Halcón."

This really shocked Father. "I have heard many stories about el Halcón. And not all of them good."

"And not all of them the truth, either," Jaime broke in. "Think of the stories you used to hear about Zorro. Most of them were lies, too." When Father glanced at him sideways, Jaime remembered. "Yes, I know the truth. Don Diego told me soon after we left, when we became close friends. He told me how he used to do it, how he managed to be Zorro, the secret tunnel, the passage through the fireplace... which I would very much like to see someday," he added wistfully, then returned. "I tell you this so you know I am telling the truth. The stories you have heard about el Halcón, about the Capitán... they are often lies. He is a good man. I fought for him, too."

Father finally nodded. "All right," he said simply.

With all this out of the way, Marianna gently pulled her hands from his, and turned to Victoria, who had released her son and turned again to watch silently, absorbing it all. "You've had no letters from him, have you?" she asked gently.

Victoria's eyes filled with tears again. "No, nothing." was all she said.

"The Spanish army does not handle mail for convicts, which is what we both were," Jaime told her. "He had none from you, either, if you sent any."

She nearly wailed. "Well, I wish I had known that four years ago!"

Marianna stopped her, then pulled a folded paper out from beneath her blouse, holding it out: the letter Diego had given her to deliver. Victoria didn't take it immediately, though, clapping both hands over her mouth to hold in her sobs. She finally whispered past her fingers, fearfully, misery itself, "Please tell me it doesn't say goodbye..."

"Of course not!" was the swift, almost severe reply. "He lives for you!"

"Then why did he not come home?" Victoria managed to choke out, looking at Jaime.

"He cannot," Jaime told her sadly. "Unless he gets a wound like mine, or until Mexico wins the war. Otherwise, he would be shot as a deserter – you saw de Soto when he saw me just now."

"And if Spain wins?" she asked softly, desolate.

Marianna took her hands again. "Then both of them will meet us – all of us, whoever can get there," she added, glancing at Father, "at the place where Diego first found Felipe, the pueblo of Marenga. We came through there on our way, so I know where it is."

"Then we will all be there, if it comes to that," Father said with finality, putting a hand on each woman's shoulder. "Until then, I will keep all of you safe, for both of my sons."


	18. Chapter 18

**Eighteen**

Suddenly and unexpectedly, the war did end, just five months later. Well, that phase of it did. We know now that Mexico was only starting this long, troubled century. But my part was done.

We had spent those months closely allied with General Guerrero, acting as his skirmishers and scouts, and picking off enemy patrols when we could. So we were not too far off when word came of the signing of the treaty granting Mexico its independence. A plan had been growing in my mind for weeks, and I called all my people – men and women – together and laid it out for them. To my complete surprise, nearly all of them agreed to come with me. Only a tiny handful left to return to their own homes.

So I left them in our camp, and dashed to General Guerrero's headquarters a few miles away. Even as quickly as I had acted, I wasn't the first. Half the men within a hundred miles had descended upon the poor general, as it was already known that he would be the commander of the new Mexican army, and possibly of higher rank in the new government, as well.

I left Diablo hitched outside the governor's house where Guerrero was and made my way inside. As I stepped into the salon, the sheer noise of all the men gathered there made Alaric, on my shoulder as usual, give an ear-splitting screech in protest, batting his wings with fury. Everyone turned in the instant silence, to see him settling down again with a grateful chirruk as if that was what he had intended.

From the next room, I heard Guerrero shout, "Is that El Halcón?" He'd recognized the sound.

"Sí, General!" I called back, and he yelled for me to come in. As I did, he came around to the end of the long table, piled with maps and surrounded by staff, to greet me.

"Put that bird down before he bites me!" he laughed, and I transferred Alaric to the back of a hastily-vacated chair, before Guerrero swept me up in a showy embrace. He was always gregarious, but this was a bit much, and I gathered he was feeling antsy from the crowd. I grinned back at him.

"Congratulations, General. You have done it!"

"We have done it, you mean," came the reply. "Very many people, including you, had a hand in it." I shrugged, but his eyes narrowed. "And now you have come to claim your reward, is that it?" he asked shrewdly.

He wouldn't like someone who beat around the bush. "I have," I replied.

"Well, what is it? You can claim nearly anything. What do you want? You want to be general? Governor? A judge?"

"First, I want pardons for me and my men."

"Of course. Garcia!" he called over to one of the secretaries lining the wall. "Write the order!" Then he turned back to me. "And then?"

"I want Los Angeles."

"What?" He had never heard of it, of course. I stepped back and walked on this side of the long table to the middle, where a giant map of New Spain – the name crossed out and Mexico scrawled above it – was spread. He matched me on the other side. I took my finger and pointed to the tiny dot that was home.

"Here. The Pueblo of Los Angeles, in the southern part of Alta California. It's tiny... but it's my home. And I want it. There's an army garrison there, been there for years, the only one for a hundred miles." I took a deep breath, and laid it out. "Give me a permanent commission in your new army as a capitán. And give me a permanent assignment as the commander of that garrison. I promise you, if I ever receive any orders sending me anywhere else, I'll resign on the spot." I knew he valued boldness, not bootlicking, and action over talk.

I stabbed my finger back down onto the dot, challenging him with my eyes. "Give me that garrison," I began, and then slammed the palm of my hand on the map, covering the entire area. "And I'll hold California for you."

He stared a moment, then gave a tremendous shout of laughter. As some of the other men there began hesitantly to join in, he slammed his own palm down on top of mine. "Done!"

He picked up my hand, then, and shook it. "Congratulations. You're a capitán. Garcia! Write the order! Go pick out a uniform," he finished, laughing loudly.

"And for my men, too? They go north with me."

"Yes, yes, and for your men, too. Garcia will tell you where the supplies are."

I snapped him a salute, and turned on my heel and left him laughing, picking Alaric back up and putting him on my shoulder as I went.

So we began our journey north and west, from the heart of Mexico up towards California, and home. It took several weeks, of course. We used the time to get used to our new uniforms – I'd gotten one for each man and grabbed many extras – and new horses; I'd taken some of them, too, and a pair of wagons piled with supplies, and teams to pull them. Many of the women rode the horses, the rest – and the children – rode in the wagons, and managed to keep up. We also learned how to ride in formation like a real troop of cavalry, from some of my men who had previously been actual soldiers. Diego, of course, sat those maneuvers out and remained in the grey suit he had picked up somewhere. On the road, Diego, Costa, Gino – newly-made Sergeant – and I alternated between the head and the tail of the column, in shifting pairs.

Of course, at nearly every town we came to, we had to stop and give the news of Mexico's victory and independence to the alcalde or the council, as well as asking for supplies. And twice we broke up riots, when the news had spread before us, and the celebrations got out of hand. I will never understand why fiestas can turn to violence. Every nervous official or military man we spoke to, I told them to stay in their posts and continue doing their job as before, until and unless they heard otherwise from the new government – and who knew how long that might be.

One day, we came to a river crossing, and found a group of wagons struggling across – a group of families on the move – so we jumped in and lent our help. Near the far side, one young woman in her mid-twenties, pushing on a corner of a wagon, slipped and went under the waist-high water. Costa was a few feet away, he jumped off his horse and grabbed her, pulling her up and away from the next team before she was trampled. He helped her to the far bank and out, holding her arm as she coughed up water.

One of the men, a short ugly man with a scar across one cheek, saw the two of them and angrily stomped over, shouting. He pulled her arm out of Costa's hand, and then slapped her, backhanded, hard enough to send her reeling. So without a word Costa hauled off and decked him, laying him out cold. He stepped back to the woman and helped her up again, then got back on his horse and rode off as if nothing had happened.

I was sitting on Diablo near the leader of the party, and I turned as I heard him sigh. "That's going to be trouble," he said, and grimaced at me.

I went cold inside. "Is she his?" He nodded. "Does he beat her often?" Another nod. "Why don't you stop it?"

"She's his," came the short reply – and I suppose, according to the law, that was the end. But not for me.

All the wagons and animals were now across, and my people were reforming to continue our way. I rode swiftly up the line to the front, and waved them started. But then I wheeled around and rode back down halfway to where Costa was riding to one side.

"Costa!" He whipped around and stared at me, surprised at the sudden fury in my voice. "Are you going to go back for her?" I asked, teeth gritted.

He was even more surprised now. Obviously, the thought hadn't even occurred to him.

"Because if you don't, when he wakes up, he's going to kill her."

"Why?" He was plainly dumbfounded.

"Because you showed him up. He beats her regularly. And if she's there when he wakes up... You're leaving her to his mercy." He hesitated still, so I leaned in. "Don't make me give you an order, Costa." All these years, I had never had to do that, and we both knew it. It was a point of pride between us.

He stared for another moment, then turned. And went back for her. I stayed there on the hill and watched as he rode up next to the wagon she was in, and simply held out his hand, saying nothing. She stared at him a moment, glanced back at where the man was still lying on the bank... and took Costa's hand, swinging over to ride behind him on his horse. Another woman in the wagon quickly gathered up a bundle – apparently her things – and handed it to Costa, who held it before him. When they came back up, I simply held out my own hand, and he handed me the bundle as he went by. I strapped it over Diablo's saddlebags without a word.

Some time later, I rode up beside the two of them, asking her name. "Trinidad," came the soft reply, and I smiled, gave her my name, and welcomed her to the company. I asked if she'd rather ride on one of the wagons, but she shook her head, and Costa seemed stiffly content with her there, so I left it, riding back to the front.

That evening, in our nightly camp, Trinidad naturally helped the other women make our quick supper and pass it out. Then she stayed by her fire, looking down, embarrassed. Costa, Diego, and I were sitting by our own fire, some ways away.

I leaned over to Costa again. "If you don't claim her, someone else will." He shrugged, as if he didn't care, and I lost my temper on him again. "Dammit, Ramon, don't be an idiot." He looked at me then, completely shocked. He never went by his first name, I doubt he remembered ever telling it to me. "Your soldiering days are over, and you know it – or you wouldn't be coming with me. You don't want to end your days alone and lonely. And she's the best woman you have ever seen – she's perfect for you, quiet and sweet. Don't be a fool and waste this chance. She's half in love with you already."

"How do you know that?"

"Because she rode behind you all day, you fool, instead of in the wagon."

"It's only because I took her away from that animal – she's just grateful."

"Yeah. That's how it starts. I know," I told him, heavy with sarcasm – reminding him of me and Marianna. "But it will only die if you let it, if you kill it with neglect."

I sat back, and Costa glared at me without a word, then simply turned away. But I could see him glancing at her, thinking. So after a few minutes I caught the eye of Luis across the way – Luis, our flirt. I winked at him, then glanced at Trinidad, then at Costa, and back at Luis – and he grinned. He got up, walked over to Trinidad, squatted down across her fire, and started doing what he did best and most naturally. He even got a shy smile from her. I glanced at Costa, to see his ears slowly turning red, and hid my own smile behind my cup. After a couple of minutes, Luis returned to his seat, extra tortilla (the supposed reason for his visit) in hand. I saw Costa looking steadily at Trinidad then, and when she glanced at him, he tilted his head purposefully at the ground beside him. So she stood, gathered her things, and came over to sit there, all without a word.

I smothered a grin and lay down to sleep. A few minutes later, I heard the softest whisper from that direction, "Not in front of everybody."

No problem, I thought.

Two nights later, we came to another town late in the evening, and I called a rare halt there. Some of us camped in the square with the alcalde's permission, but I got rooms over the cantina for many of us, including one for Costa and Trinidad.

A few minutes later, as I sat downstairs having some wine with Diego, the two of them were suddenly standing next to my table. Hand in hand. Costa's ears were bright red, while Trinidad was blushing.

"We want to be handfasted," he blurted out.

"Here? Now?" I asked, and he glared at me. My honorable teniente would not 'do the deed' without it being made official, in front of witnesses. I threw up my hands, grinning. "All right, all right!"

Even though Marianna and I had never had such a ceremony, I had witnessed several, even presided over one or two, so I had some good ideas. I jumped up, and pulled a small empty table to the middle of the floor. I pulled my bandanna off and spread it across the surface like a tiny tablecloth, and finally asked the barman for a new cup of wine, in his best glass, and a small piece of bread. When they came, I placed them on the table, whistled for silence and got it, then brought the bride and groom to stand on either side of the table.

I had him give me his bandanna, then had them clasp right hands over the top of the wine glass, winding the bandanna around them and tying it in a loose knot. I had them speak their vows to each other – whatever they wanted. Costa, man of few words, opted for a simple "I take you for my wife, and will never have another," while Trinidad, perhaps remembering other times, brought some of the words from the religious ceremony in.

Then I picked up the bread. "Bread is called the stuff of life, and the breaking of it is recognized all over the world as the symbol of peace, friendship and togetherness. Take this bread with your free hands and break it, and eat it, as token of your promise that from now on, you will share everything: not just food and drink and shelter, but all of your lives – your joys and sorrows, your pains and your fears, your dreams and responsibilities, for children and everything else." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diego lean back with a misty expression, remembering.

Then I picked up the cup of wine. "Wine is also sacred, and you have sanctified this cup by speaking your vows across it. Now seal those vows by sharing the wine, until it is gone." As they passed the cup back and forth, I reached over and grabbed my own cup off my table, and had everyone stand and make a simple toast to the health and happiness of the new couple. Then I untied the bandanna from their hands, handed it to Trinidad, and told her to retie it around her husband's neck. "Not too tight, now!" I teased.

And that is how my friend Teniente Costa finally got married.

And a few days later, we came to Marenga.


	19. Chapter 19

**Nineteen**

We went through the pueblo where the massacre had taken place for three reasons. First, it was right on the way. Second, in case any of our family had come there to meet us from Los Angeles. And third, because I wanted to see it. I wanted to know. I got much more than I had bargained for.

We rode into the town just before noon, and stopped in the square to look around. Nothing looked at all familiar to me, Diego, or Costa – in fact, all the buildings looked new. There were no signs of the bombardment we all knew had taken place some fifteen years before. "Well, perhaps..." murmured Diego before his voice trailed off.

The alcalde came to greet us warily, of course, as he would any group of armed men – especially those in uniform. We gave him the news, and my usual instructions to sit tight, then inquired about our family. No one matching their descriptions – no strangers at all, in fact – were in town. Then we asked about the lack of signs of the old fight. That was when we found out that the entire town we were looking at was, indeed, new – Nueva Marenga. The old, destroyed pueblo was half a mile beyond. And the meadow where the worst had taken place – and where Diego had found me – lay in between.

There was a large plaque in the new church, the alcalde went on, with all the names that had been known. He had been living in a nearby village at the time. After everyone was sure the army was gone, they had all come out, gathered all the victims – and much of the debris – they could find into a gigantic pile in the meadow and set it alight. The funeral pyre had burned for days. And the meadow had never been touched by plow or animal since, left as a silent monument to the dead, unmarked save by a large, simple cross put up in front of the pyre.

We thanked him and rode on, coming soon to the meadow. The road now skirted the edge of it and the ruins of the old town beyond before continuing northwest. As soon as I saw the cross, twice the height of a man, an icy chill swept over me. Grass and flowers had claimed both mound and meadow – if you didn't know what the mound was made of, or that the massive potholes scattered all around were from bombs, you would never guess the horrific, gruesome origin of the peaceful scene. Without warning, Alaric suddenly launched himself from my shoulder and took to the sky with a single fierce screech.

I stopped the company there on the road and dismounted, walking slowly across the grass towards the cross and mound. I knew vaguely that Diego was following me, but paid no attention. I didn't recognize anything outright, but still... I knew. It seemed I heard a howling wind, though barely a breeze was stirring the meadow – it was all in my mind. And then I heard distant explosions, and screams, and horses at the run, and horns blowing, and men shouting. My vision dimmed and turned red and black, and I know I collapsed onto hands and knees.

And then... the wall between my conscious mind and all my early memories... simply collapsed and crumbled away. A torrent flooded through my mind, of faces, and names, and scenes, and emotions, and facts. I couldn't grab hold of any of them, but I knew they would not be gone again.

I don't know how long I knelt there, awash with memories. I came to my senses after a time, finding Diego kneeling beside me, holding my shoulder and calling my name. I straightened up, then stood shakily, touched his hand a moment then brushed it away. A glance told me the company was still mounted in formation in the roadway, staring at me, Costa at their head. I knew what I needed to do. All the ghostly sounds in my head had faded, leaving only a pregnant silence, as if all the world, seen and unseen, held its breath and waited.

I called my men once more to attention, my voice so rough and hoarse I didn't know it. I took two steps toward the mound and stood stiffly, staring. Alaric had come inexplicably to land on one arm of the cross and was staring at me with the eyes of the dead. I took a deep breath, and began calling out their names as loud as I could, my voice becoming stronger and surer as I went.

"Benedetto and Corinna di Santos!"  
"Angelo and Marietta di Santos, and their children, Nicoleta," I choked for a moment as her face floated before my eyes, "Angelo, and Giacomo... only six months old." I had to breathe for a moment.  
"Giani and Pauletta di Santos, and their son Gianinni."

"Stefano and Gloria di Santos, and their children, Lorenzo and Elena... only two years old."  
"Gloria's brothers, Guiseppe and Davide Ricci."  
"Marco di Santos, the father of all, and his mother, Sara, who was seventy years old."

I stood breathing heavily for a moment, making sure that was all. No more names or faces came to me, but I had to say more.

"All of them innocent, and all of them MURDERED, on this spot, for no reason. Never remembered. Never avenged.

"BUT I REMEMBER!" I screamed it out. Tears were pouring down my face, my expression must have been terrible. "I remember..." That came as a whisper. Then, stronger, as I knew then what I must do. "And I swear, on my blood..." I unsheathed my dagger, and before Diego, still behind me, could stop me – I heard him drawing a sharp breath as if to do so – I drew it across the palm of my left hand and then held that hand out towards the mound, dripping blood onto the ground. "On my blood, mixed with your ashes, I SWEAR that I will NEVER allow another tyrant, another army, to crush, or destroy, or murder MY PEOPLE, EVER AGAIN!"

My voice echoed across the meadow, then faded, leaving silence again. I heard Costa shift his feet, then he drew breath, called the company needlessly to attention again, turned them to half-face the mound and meadow, and led them through a gun salute, first one rank and then the other, firing over the top of the mound. I raised my right hand to my forehead in a salute and held it throughout. Then he turned them back again. I dropped the salute as smartly as I could, then leaned down for a handful off moss, which I put against the cut in my palm. As I turned back, Diego was there with a bandanna, which he wrapped around the hand, leaving it in a fist wrapped around the moss, then stood back to let me march back to Diablo. Up I mounted, and off we rode, without a word, leaving the mound and meadow under the sun and Alaric's fierce glare.


	20. Chapter 20

**Twenty**

Out of sight of the meadow, I slowed Diablo to let Costa catch up, then handed him one of the reins without a word. I heard him tell Diablo, "Behave. Or I'll punch you," but my horse knew better. I leaned over his neck, cradling both my hand and my broken heart, and rode that way for hours, awash again in memories.

Late that afternoon, we came to a good campsite and Costa called a halt. I managed to get down, and let him take care of Diablo for once – he was one of the tiny handful that my prickly, proud stallion would still ever allow near. Diego made a fire near me, and we settled in for the night. Everyone was quiet, letting me be, but I felt them gathering around as if in a protective circle. Even Alaric circled high above, then came to rest on a nearby branch. He hadn't come near me all day.

The women whipped up a hot meal, and Sofia brought me a plate, urging me quietly to try to eat when I refused, so I took it and put it down next to me. Then she said quietly, "Capitán, there are two things I need to tell you. First, I know you didn't see the gun salute, but you should know... they did it perfectly, as though they had practiced a hundred times. It was beautiful." I nodded, and she went on. "Second, the alcalde had come out behind us and saw it all. He asked me to tell you, that if you will write down the names and send them to him, he will add them to the ones on the wall in the church." I nodded again, and she left.

Some time later, I asked Diego if he had something to write with, but when he made to hand me pen and paper, I waved my hand for him to write. "Don't worry about the spelling, we'll fix it later." And I told off the names again, slowly.

"Benedetto and Corinna were your parents?" He guessed. I nodded. "And your name was Marco, like you thought?"

I nodded again. "Named for my grandfather."

I paused again at Nicoleta, and my face twisted. "She was my best friend, and my cousin. We were both seven. We did everything together, constantly. And we had promised to marry when we grew up." Her laugh echoed through my memory, stabbing my heart again. How could such a bright, beautiful girl be dead, and so long ago?

After the names, I slowly began our story, what I could remember. We were all one large, extended family of fishermen, from a small village on the coast of Italy. "The fishing was getting worse, and there was political trouble... money trouble... maybe legal trouble... I remember lots of angry shouting, every night." Finally, grandfather Marco and his mother, Sara, decided we all should move and start again somewhere else. My father's oldest brother, Ricardo, had been gone many years – I didn't remember him at all. But he had found a good place – another fishing village, on the northwest coast of Mexico. For all I knew, it might have been Los Angeles, or San Diego. So everybody sold everything they could, and we were all traveling together to a new life. We had just been passing through Marenga, with our three wagons, and were simply at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"The parents hid all us children in the middle of the wagons. Mi Mamí put me in a trunk, telling me to not make a sound. I couldn't see anything of course. It was terrifying, jolting and bouncing in that tiny, black trunk." No wonder I am still afraid of small enclosed places. "But I could hear. There were explosions, distant at first, but then closer and closer, louder and louder. The jolting got worse, and people were screaming. Finally, one last tremendous crash, and my trunk went flying through the air. I must have blacked out when it landed for a bit. It cracked open a little, and I could see some things through the cracks, but I was too terrified to move. It still hid me from sight.

"I could see Mamí and Papí, lying not far away, not moving." It was the same scene that I believed I had seen in the hacienda, putting Diego's and Father's faces on my parents. "And I could hear... People were screaming, and moaning, and crying, from all around. The bombing had stopped, and all I heard was people." I stopped for a moment, then forced myself on. "I could hear Giacomo crying, crying... I wanted to get up and go to him, but I couldn't move, I was so afraid."

Another pause, longer. "And then they came through with pistols." I know my voice was wracked with pain. Around me I heard shocked whispers, as my words were repeated to those too far away to hear. "I heard... I heard shot after shot. And one by one, the crying and moaning stopped."

"Last of all was little Giacomo. He was crying... and there was a shot... and he stopped." All around me, I could hear my people reacting, some with quiet tears, some with whispered curses. Diego was stock still, staring at me. His face was as terrible as mine must have been.

After a minute, I could go on. "I could hear the soldiers walking away, laughing. I didn't want to hear any more, so I stopped my ears. Mamí said, 'don't make a sound,' so I stopped my voice. And I didn't want to remember what I had heard and seen, so I stopped my memory." I looked at Diego. "You were right all along. I did it to myself." He nodded stiffly, not knowing what to say.

On my other side, a few feet away, Costa was choking. "Capitán... Felipe..." He never called me by my first name, either. "I swear... I swear I didn't know what they did, with pistols... I stayed back by the cannon. I swear I didn't know."

Diego jerked around to face him. He had never known Costa had been there. But I looked at my teniente and shook my head. "I know that. I have never blamed you, my friend. I know you didn't do that." I gathered myself up for a moment with effort. "My fury has never been for the common soldier, even though they are the ones whose blood I have spilled. My fury – my hatred – is for the commander in charge, who ordered it, and for his officers, who should have talked him out of it, but instead carried out his commands. And for all the commanders, and all the officers, just like them."

I was all talked out. There was no more left to say. I took up my plate and picked at the food for a few minutes, while I heard everyone settling down. When I put it aside again, Diego looked at me.

"Are you going to let me look at that hand, or are you going to wait till it festers and falls off?"

I gave him a resigned look. I knew he was right, even if his attempt to lighten the mood that tiny bit was supremely irritating just then. "Just find me a bottle of whiskey," I told him, expecting it to take a while, but he immediately held a full bottle out to me. I snatched it from his hand and glared. "I think I liked you better when I couldn't talk, too."

"Too late!" was all he said.

* * *

The next morning I woke up slowly, turned my head and groaned – though I tried to keep it down. My head was splitting. Hangovers are the other reason I never get drunk. They are simply not worth it to me.

I managed to get up after a few minutes, washed my face and hands, and drank about a gallon of water, before stumbling over to where the women were making breakfast. And there I stopped. Maria had just finished feeding her three-month-old daughter. The sight of the baby on her mother's shoulder brought everything back.

"I owe you an apology," I managed to say to Maria. "To all of you," I added, including all the women there.

"Why?"

"For all the times I lit into you when one of your babies cried." I watched as the memory of my story of Giacomo crying crossed their faces, then I gave an apologetic shrug. "Now we know why."

"Now we know why," Sofia, always forward, agreed. "No apology necessary, Capitán." The others nodded too, and I ducked my head, grateful for their benediction.

"Have you ever held a baby, Capitán?" Maria wanted to know out of the blue. When I shook my head no, she grinned – and without warning, pushed little Juana into my arms. "You're coming home to one of your own," she said as the others snickered. "You need the practice!"

"Maria!" I warned, outraged, but I couldn't maintain it in the face of all their grins – so welcome after the horror of the previous day and night. So I sniffed, "Fine!", and turned and stalked back to my place, as dignified as a man carrying a baby can be. Juana agreed with me that her mother was very bossy.


	21. Chapter 21

**Twenty-One**

After that, I began to feel a growing sense of urgency. Something was telling me that we needed to get home as fast as possible. So I picked up the pace as much as I could, buying more ready food along the way when we could, and not stopping until after dark each day. They grumbled, but put up with it.

Finally, at long, long last, we came into familiar territory. As Gino had told us that Marianna and the others had done, we took the side road past the hacienda, and pulled off into the stand of woods half a mile away from the house just before dark. The sense that had been riding me told me to go cautiously, and a few minutes later, I was glad I had.

I tossed Alaric up onto a tree branch, and Diego, Costa, and I walked carefully to the crest of the hill overlooking the hacienda, and stopped short. It was no longer deserted as Gino had said. Instead, all signs pointed to it having been invaded. Drunken shouting was spilling out of broken windows, a fire was going in the kitchen from the smoke pouring out of the chimney, and horses wandered among the vegetable gardens, still saddled. I counted more than a dozen.

Diego hissed at me to leave them and go on to the pueblo to find the family, but I shook my head, hard. Never leave an enemy at your back. He knew better, he was just on needles. So we pulled back to the woods, I had them quietly set up a quick defensible camp that could be vacated at a moment's notice, and had the men gear up for silent battle, going on foot for the time but leaving their horses saddled and ready.

Suddenly I heard something, I couldn't tell what, but I threw up a hand to stop the chatter and listened. And there it was again: an animal whimpering, coming from beyond the camp but approaching. Someone on that side, Sofia I think, turned and gasped out a name, but I had already recognized it and was on the run to the source.

It was Chico, the dog my beloved had brought north, limping on one hind leg and crying. I gathered him up and tried quickly to see what was wrong, but came up with no obvious wounds. "Chico, where is Marianna?" He only looked at me and cried. I let him go and stood, trying again. "Chico! Find Marianna!" Same response.

I whirled around and stared daggers at Diego, standing now by my shoulder with a white face. "If _she_ were in town," I hissed, " _he_ would not be out here." He nodded tightly. The next most obvious place was inside our hacienda, captive perhaps of whoever had invaded it. I turned again to order the men to be ready _now_ , but they already were.

Leaving Chico in the camp, my brother and I led the company on foot through the scrub to where we knew the secret tunnel he had used as Zorro came out, opened the way, and led them through the dark. We rounded the last corner together, my brother and I – and came to a skidding halt, facing three lethal rifles pointed at us. Quiet as we were, they had heard us coming. I threw up my hand and heard Costa softly call the halt, which was quickly passed back down the line.

I managed to take in the faces behind the rifles – Jaime Mendoza and Miguel Cordoba were flanking Father – Don Alejandro – in the middle. Then my gaze was wrenched to the left, to see Anita Cordoba, Victoria, a few small children... and Marianna. She gasped out my name and was in my arms a moment later. I dimly heard Diego ask seriously, "Are you really going to shoot me, Father?" before Victoria had brushed past me and flung herself into her long-absent husband's arms as well.

To breathe again after being held underwater for a year, to have an arm hanging lifelessly then suddenly regain its use, to come out of a cave into the sun after a lifetime in the dark – that is what it was like holding my beloved again. I can say no better.

After a few minutes I was able to think somewhat coherently again. Her face was stained with tears, throwing insane visions into my head. What had been done to her, and by whom? "Are you all right?" I asked over and over, until she put her hand over my mouth to stop it.

"Chico – " she started brokenly, but I broke in.

"He's all right. He found us. He's back in our camp, in the pines," I said quickly, reveling in the joy those words brought into her eyes.

But I had another concern. "The baby?" I breathed hesitantly, steeling myself for dreadful news, but she laughed softly and turned to look down at her side. There, lying in a box upon an old bale of hay, was a tiny scrap of human. "This is your son, Agostino," she said simply.

My sense of humor was caught. "Agostino? Such a big name for such a little guy." I was trying to catch my balance again after she had blown me away.

"It was my baby brother's name, remember?" Her brother had died a child. "We call him Tino, for short."

Just then, the baby – my son – started to fuss. I leaned over him, put my hand on his chest, marveling at how it covered him, and whispered to him, "Shhhh. Papí is here." It quieted him, somehow. I like to think he knew me, even in his sleep, even just a few months old. I didn't realize until later that I had unconsciously used the Italian pet name, as I had called my own Papí as a boy.

I looked back at Marianna; she hadn't really answered the main burning question. "Are you all right?" I asked once more, about to jump out of my skin with worry, but she smiled again.

"I am now," was all she said, her eyes speaking volumes.

But then a loud crash came from the house overhead, bringing me back to my senses. I had a job to do. I leaned over to my beloved and said, "Here. Hold this for me," and gave her a kiss. "I'll be back for that," I added, and she laughed, the only sound I ever wanted to hear again.

Father and Jaime were sitting on a bench, chatting awkwardly with Costa. My memory replayed Jaime asking if we had brought the whole company – they had crowded into the entrance to the underground room as best they could fit – and Costa replying with a smile in his voice, "Pretty much." He had missed our clown too, though he would never admit it aloud. He had then explained our uniforms; we were now with the victorious Army of Mexico.

I stepped past Diego and Victoria, placed a hand on Father's shoulder and squeezed it, then turned to Jaime, all business. "Tell me what I need to know." That had always been how I asked for reports – it focused the scout's mind and cut out the extra details. "Who the hell is that up there?"

It worked on Jaime, too. "A large group of outlaws – at least thirty – rode into town this morning and took it over," he began simply. "They killed some people, wounded many, smashed windows and the market, took what they wanted, and settled into the cantina to drink."

Marianna, coming beside me, broke in. "Jaime saved us. He saw them ride in and immediately slammed and locked the cantina door, told us to grab our sons and get out. We snuck out the back and out here to the hacienda."

Father continued, "Then they followed us out here. We came down here into the tunnel with the Cordobas, and were waiting for dark. We were going to sneak out then and get to Marenga to wait for you."

"Well," I quipped. "I'm glad we saved you the trip," and was rewarded with that smile I so well remembered. But there was no time for a reunion. I turned back to Jaime, the former soldier. "Are all of them here?"

"No. The leader is, I heard him. He's a big man, huge, mean as a snake and loud. He's called Chaco. Of the others... I counted fifteen I'm certain off. Perhaps a few more. And..." He hesitated and I nodded him on. "I think a couple of lancers have joined them."

That jolted me, that members of the pueblo's soldiers would join up with a band of outlaws. I spat out, "What about the alcalde?"

"He did nothing," Father hissed, his eyes snapping. "He and the lancers are hiding behind the garrison walls."

"I think he may have made a deal with the outlaws," added Jaime. I asked what deal, but he shrugged, not knowing, so I returned to the situation in the house above our heads.

"Arms?"

"Heavy. All have rifles, pistols, knives, some have swords."

"Former soldiers?"

"Some of them, I think so, yes. I saw some army jackets."

"Fifteen or more here?" I was thinking hard, mapping out a plan. "Where are the rest?" Presumably back in town was the reply, probably in the cantina, but they had no real information on that.

But they did on something else. "There were also..." Father began, but couldn't continue for a moment. "We heard two women before. Screaming. They stopped, hours ago." I absorbed that with a sinking heart. Two more victims that shouldn't have been.

"Some of the outlaws are probably in our house," Miguel put in. They were the family, you remember, that came north with Marianna. At my questioning look, he explained, "We converted the far end of the big barn to our house. The rest is storage."

"Then we'll clean it out after we have finished above," I assured him.

"Then let's go," said Diego, making as if to turn, but I stopped him with a word.

"No. You're out. Stay here and guard the family." He drew breath to reply, outraged, but again I cut him off, my voice flat. "You're arguing. Do I need to spell it out?"

He stopped a second and realized what I was not saying. The coming action would be a bloody attack, which I had always kept him out of, per our agreement. "No," he replied softly. "But think about this for a moment. Is this really how you want to begin?"

I stared at him. "If it were only a handful of men, that would be an easy police action. But more than thirty, heavily armed, taking over the town, the alcalde doing nothing? That's a military operation. I'll counter it the only way I can. Yes, this is how I am beginning." I took a breath. "Now, are you finished?"

"Sí, Capitán." He was still angry, but he knew by then better than to continue.

"Then stay here and guard," I repeated. "Once we're all through, take them all out the tunnel and back to the camp. You're in command there, Alcalde." He nodded again, and I turned back to Father and Jaime. "Anything else I need to know?"

"Yes," replied Father. "Be careful." He saw my face and waved a dismissive hand, explaining sourly, "they've been smashing wine glasses in the fireplace all afternoon." The fireplace, of course, was the exit into the house from this secret chamber.

"Well of course they have," I said sarcastically. "What else do barbarians do with crystal? Hand me the broom," I added to Jaime, gesturing behind him. He turned, puzzled, but then saw the handle, fished it out and gave it to me. "It used to be mine," I told him, explaining how I knew it was there. I passed it on to Cordoba. "Just the broom," I told him, he wasn't joining the attack. "Costa and I will go through first, then you. One push out, one left, then stand aside and let us through. You're not making it clean, just getting the worst. Once we're through, come back down and leave with the others."

Cordoba nodded, and I turned to Costa and the men, gathered them up again, and up we went. There had been no more noise from above since that last crash; the outlaws all sedated by their guzzled, stolen wine. I won't describe the action, spreading silently through the hacienda and taking out the bandits one by one, but at the end we had killed every one, and lost none of our own. Costa then took a squad to the barn and found just two more. He was able to reassure Cordoba that their house and belongings had not been greatly damaged.

When all was secure, I took all my men back down the road to the camp at a quick march to retrieve our horses. The next phase would be in town, and we needed them to get there. I took a few minutes with Marianna, then went over to Father, at last exchanging a long, close hug.

Then he pulled back. "Did you find the women?" he asked, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

"Yes," I replied shortly. "They died some time ago. We wrapped them in blankets and laid them in the back room. Do you know who they were?" He shook his head. "Do not," I said severely, just short of making it an order, "go and look. Not even to identify them. Please, Father. They were badly treated. In fact," I went on, "don't go into the house at all. Not for a few days, and not in the dark. It's ruined," I said as gently as I could.

His face was terrible. "I did nothing," he moaned. "I should have..."

"And if you had," I rode over him ruthlessly, "you would have put up a very brave front, and died very heroically – but you would be dead, and so would those women, and so would everyone else, including my wife and son. Father..." I went on, more kindly. "There was nothing you could do. I know – believe me, I truly do – what it is like to stand by and do nothing. But there was nothing you could do. The women would not have wanted all of you to die too."

He was hardly soothed. "I still feel..." and I cut him off again.

"Then help their families, when we find out who they were."

He stared at me a moment, then shortly nodded agreement, before returning to the most important thing. "What will you do with..." The bodies, he could not bring himself to add.

"I'll send a wagon out for the women, to bring them in and lay them to rest respectfully, as soon as I can. We're taking all the outlaws with us now." I grinned at his questioning look, and answered before he could ask. "We're going to give them to the alcalde, as a present."

"Now that I would like to see," he said grimly, and I nodded.

"I'll send someone out to get you all in time. It will be just before dawn, so try to get a little sleep before then. Tomorrow will be a very long day." And with that, we mounted up, minus Diego but with Jaime, who I asked to come and guide us, and began the next phase of taking over the town.


	22. Chapter 22

**Twenty-Two**

We returned to the hacienda and barn, slung the bodies (minus weapons) across our horses' withers, and started towards the pueblo about two miles away. We had put the old leather boots on our horses' feet, leaving the bandits' horses behind, so were moving as quietly as only we could. We went around a bend, Costa, Jaime and me in the lead, and startled a single rider coming the other way.

Jaime spurred out before anyone could react. "Vargas! Stop! It's me, Mendoza. You know me!"

"You, yes," came the way reply, but he didn't run, perhaps realizing instantly he would never get away. I could see in the setting moon that he was wearing a uniform. "Who are all these men?"

"Friends," I replied, coming up towards his other side. He stared wide-eyed at Alaric, riding sleepily on my shoulder, then turned back to the man he knew.

Jaime turned and gave me his name, Teniente Vargas, from the garrison, adding "he's a good man." His shoulder epaulets were ripped off, and his bloody left arm hung in a makeshift sling. Jaime said to him, "De Soto canned you, didn't he, like he canned me years ago?"

Vargas hesitated, then nodded. "I disagreed with his deal with the outlaws," he said sourly. "I was laid up in bed with a fever, but got up to..." He ended with a shrug.

"Where are you headed, so long after dark?" I asked, though I had an idea of the answer.

"To find help." I was right, and I grinned.

"You found it. I'm Capitán de la Vega, of the Mexican National Army. I'm taking command of the garrison."

He pounced. "Then it is true, the rumors? Mexico is independent?" Apparently, either the alcalde didn't know, or was keeping it from everyone else. When I reassured him, he straightened, wary. "And what of me and my men?" I noted to myself approvingly that he still considered himself in command of the lancers.

"I'm hoping you'll all join us, after we take care of this little problem," I replied. I moved Diablo up two more steps, and held out my hand.

Vargas glanced at Jaime, then behind him at Costa, who he recognized as another teniente. Both of them nodded at him, Costa adding the old "all is well" hand signal for good measure. Then he looked back at me, made up his mind, smiled, and shook my hand. "Then welcome, Capitán."

I asked him to turn around and ride back with us. "Tell me what I need to know. Where are they all?"

He briefed me as we rode. There were thirty-seven total bandits. Many of them were in the cantina, sleeping it off. A few of them had scattered, he didn't know where. The town was quiet, people waiting to see what would happen, hoping for someone to step up and protect them. The alcalde didn't seem interested in doing so, and the lancers were under his command. And... he hesitated. "Two of my men seem to have joined them."

I nodded. "We have them," I said simply, hooking a thumb back to the company behind us. He swiveled and looked, only then seeing all the bodies slung over horses. He turned back with a wolfish grin and straightened his back.

Jaime and Vargas led us to a row of warehouses, new since I had left – the pueblo had grown significantly. One of them, belonging to the cantina, was nearly empty. Jaime let us in – there was enough room for all our horses, barely, and the bodies stacked unkindly to one side. We left them there with two guards and walked quietly through the alleys to the cantina two blocks away. The next few minutes was a repeat of the assault on the hacienda. We managed to clear it – luckily none of them were on the porch in front – without making enough noise to alert anyone outside it. Now we had fully thirty-one bodies, but I already had a plan.

I peeked out a front window through the curtain. All was still. Not a soul was in sight in the plaza except the two lancer sentries on the garrison wall above the big gate. Vargas told me there were no patrols, had been none since the invasion. Not a single person would be out on the street.

I sent my men back to the warehouse to bring the bodies there to the cantina. Then I told them my plan. Our new uniforms were dark blue, appearing black in the starlight – the moon had set. It was about halfway between midnight and dawn. I took some grey ash from the fireplace and smoothed it on my face and hands, making me ghostly. My men I had do the same but with coal dust. They took off their jackets with their shiny buttons, and I told them to keep their eyes down and their mouths shut – they would be only man-shaped shadows in the starlit plaza.

The cantina door opened silently and I went out, Alaric (dead asleep) on my left shoulder. I walked slowly across the plaza to a point several yards from the garrison gate, and then stood there, silently staring up at the two guards. They had frozen in place when they saw me, their faces blanching white. I'm sure they thought I was a grisly specter, with my silent dread companion, as they were supposed to. The hardest part for me for the next phase was keeping my face straight.

Making every motion slow as slow, I brought my finger up to my lips, shushing them, then pointed to my captain's bars on my shoulder. They took the hint, and saluted me! I saluted back, shushed them again, then dropped my hand. Raising my left, I crooked two fingers to beckon towards the cantina. By then I was biting the inside of my cheeks, drawing blood, to keep from laughing.

Two by two, my men slipped out the cantina with the bodies of the outlaws, brought them silently across the plaza, and laid them out in a long row between me and the garrison. They left a gap directly in front of me. Last of all, four of them brought out the huge bandit leader, Chaco, and placed him the gap. Then they all disappeared back into the cantina, shutting the door silently behind them.

I waited a moment for the guards' eyes to snap back to me, then I turned and walked to one end of the line, pulling out my pouch of feathers. Step by step, I went back up the line, bending and placing a feather on each dead man's breast. I chose the biggest one for Chaco.

Then I walked back to the center one more time, shushed the sentries once more, got one more salute... and turned and paced slowly, silently back to the cantina and through the door.

And all of us nearly died laughing, as quietly as we could.


	23. Chapter 23

**Twenty-Three**

After that, I sent all but two of my men back to the warehouse, telling them to get what sleep they could. Those two and Jaime I sent back to the camp in the woods to bring all the families in to the cantina. And I perched Alaric on the bar, and went and stretched out on the cot in the little office downstairs to sleep.

Some time later, I heard the office door quietly open. It was Marianna. I held out that arm, but she placed my son beside me instead, and laid her head on my chest. We snoozed that way a few minutes longer, until Tino began fussing. I tried to quiet him, but it didn't last.

"He's getting hungry," my beloved sighed. She sat up, picked up the baby, and began to nurse him. I sat up too and held them both, watching my son nurse for the first time, letting the peace she always gave me sink into my bones and my breath. The dawn was just beginning to show through the office window.

He finished nursing, and I held my son for the first time for a few minutes. Then we stood, me pulling on my jacket, and went out into the cantina, finding the rest of our families, including my company's.

"Capitán," Gino called softly. He'd been keeping watch out the window. "Two men just rode in, took one look, and went running."

"Good," I replied. That makes what, thirty-three? Four left somewhere." I wasn't worried about them. "Are the lancers out yet?" Some were gathering on the wall to stare, but the door had not yet been opened.

"Vargas, Jaime," I called. "I need you to stay here." I turned to Vargas. "Sneak out the back door and get as close to the garrison door as you can. When the lancers are called out and lined up, get in front of them and retake command. He says they trust you," I added, tipping my head towards Jaime. "Use it. Do what you have to, but keep them from firing. The very last thing I want is a standing battle in a plaza crowded with civilians – especially against men I hope to lead in a few hours." I turned to Jaime. "Do whatever you can to help him. Keep those lancers from following de Soto's orders." I had no doubt the alcalde's reaction would be hostile.

Then I turned to the others. As I did, a fantastic aroma hit my nose: Sofia and Maria had been helping Victoria whip up something in the cantina kitchen. They held up a cup of coffee and a warm tortilla wrapped around some quickly-cooked rice. I grabbed them and downed the coffee in one gulp. "Oh, bless you all." Then Maria held up a bag – more food for the men. I grinned. "You are angels."

I turned back. "The rest of you, please stay inside. Watch out the windows, but don't come outside until we ride in. Then you can come out to the porch and watch." They nodded, understanding. I didn't want them distracting the alcalde before I arrived.

Jaime came up to me then, speaking in a low voice as I picked up Alaric and settled him once more on my shoulder. "Capitán... you always ask us to tell you what you need to know." I nodded. "I think de Soto has lost it. He's loco, around the bend. And more... I haven't seen him draw his sword once since I came back, not even to practice." I waited a beat to see if there was more, but there wasn't. I nodded again and touched his shoulder in appreciation for that valuable bit of information.

I was headed towards the back door when Diego stopped me, formally, saying he had something to give me. When I turned towards him, he was holding out perhaps the last thing I ever expected: a polished silver sword. The sword of Zorro.

I rocked back in shock, staring at my brother. "I'll never carry it again," he said softly, a world of meaning behind it: all the previous months of recovering from the violence he had been forced to hand out, and never would again. But in my hands, he added, it would mete out justice.

" _Justice?_ " I replied. "You know what I'm planning to do out there." We hadn't discussed it in detail, but we both knew de Soto had to go, and there was only one way to do it. Diego nodded acknowledgment, adding that as the garrison commander, justice was mine, that he hoped the sword would remind me where the line was, but _he_ never would.

As I was absorbing that, the church bell across the plaza began clamoring, and I jumped. "Father Patricio has seen the bodies, and thinks everybody else needs to come look, too," guessed Marianna (correctly, it turned out). It was time to go.

I gave in, taking off my old sword and buckling on the one I had watched for so many years, and yes, coveted; I won't deny it. I managed, I think, to do it with dignity, giving Diego the old swordsman's salute with it before turning once more to go.

But then Diego called me one last time. "Capitá-án," he sing-songed, and I glared at him suspiciously. He pointed to the corner of the bar. "Your hat," he reminded me.

I groaned, glaring at the thing. "I hate hats, and that one is stupid!" It was: one of those tall, stiff, ugly, gaudy uniform hats so beloved of Spanish military officers. Those who knew me laughed. "My hands are full," I added with dignity. "I can't take it."

Jaime reached over, lifted one of my arms, and gently placed the despised cap under my elbow. "You should at least wear it riding in," he managed to chide me without smiling.

"If I don't drop it into a river," I snarled, turning once more to the door.

"There aren't any near!" called Father.

"I'll find one!" I promised, and at last escaped.

Back to the warehouse I dashed with my two soldiers. We passed a few civilians hurrying towards the plaza; they glanced at us quickly and away, giving us a wide berth. When we reached the warehouse, gave the signal and slipped inside, we found them all checking their saddles and getting ready – the church bell had alerted them, too. And there were four more outlaw bodies. I raised my eyebrows at Costa, who grinned.

"They came snooping around about an hour ago, so we thought they should join their brothers." So I had four of my men add them to their horses, to those long-suffering animals' displeasure.

"That's every single one, then," I said gleefully, and informed him of the two that had departed earlier.

We circled around through the back streets until we came to the main avenue, which would take us into the plaza directly across from the garrison. We cantered along easily, my men two by two behind me. We'd taken the boots off the horses' feet, so their hooves made a glorious thunder, announcing our approach.

I rode in through the scattering crowd and up to a few feet from the line of bodies, stopping Diablo with a flourish. My men came up and split, making a single line behind me, the last two at each end briefly turning their horses to dump the last bodies unceremoniously on top of their former compadres.

Ignacio de Soto was standing between the line of bodies and the garrison gate, having come out to investigate. The alcalde was gaunt, strung tight as a bow, managing to look tattered even in his pristine uniform, his long white hair greasy and disheveled. He looked wildly at us riding in, and shouted orders over his shoulder to the lancers who were pouring out of the gate and forming up behind him, trying to bring them to attention, present arms and fire.

Even as he spoke, though, Vargas came barreling out of nowhere, planted himself directly in front of his line of lancers and countermanded the alcalde's orders. They shouted over each other for a moment, but Vargas won the day (with a shouted "Sí, Teniente!" from the shadows – Jaime's contribution), as the lancers glanced at each other uncertainly, then grounded their weapons and stood watching their teniente.

De Soto glared murder at Vargas, then gave up on it and whirled back around to me. "What the hell is going on here?" he demanded.

"What you should have done, were you anything other than a sniveling, power-hungry coward!" I shot back to start the ball rolling. Since the lancers were stood down, I hand-signaled my own men to put up their rifles.

"How dare you?" he puffed, ridiculously. "I am the alcalde - "

"Not anymore!" I shouted over him, tearing off the despised hat almost without thinking and throwing it onto the pile of bodies, making Alaric squawk and bate, so I tossed him into the air as well, and he winged to sit on the church's peak. "You lost that position from your own inaction! An alcalde protects his people and his town from all who would threaten, he doesn't sit still and hand them over to outlaws!"

"Who the hell are you?" he ground out. He was setting me up like someone had handed him a script to read.

I grinned at him like a wolf. "Watch him," I said to Costa, then brought Diablo around in a rearing turn to face the Los Angelinos gathered in a huge circle around the edge of the plaza. "Amigos!" I shouted as loud as I could. "The alcalde has been lying to you! The revolution is over, and Mexico has won! California is now part of a free and independent Mexico!"

They cheered at that, letting loose with all the anxiety and fear they'd felt for long. After a minute, I raised my hand and whistled, and they quieted again to hear me shout.

"Amigos! You know me! I am Don Felipe Marco de la Vega, adopted son of Don Alejandro." I saw some faces turn towards the cantina, and knew they were standing there. I pulled my folded orders out from my inside jacket pocket and held them high above my head. "I am a capitán in the Mexican National Army. And by order of his excellency, General Guerrero, Commander of the Army, I hereby take command of this garrison!" There. It was done, public and official.

I heard three things at once behind me. De Soto muttered "Oh hell no!", I heard the sweet whisper of a sword being drawn, and Costa called sharply, "Capitán!"

I brought Diablo around again, rearing once more, and he kicked at de Soto as he whirled, knocking him aside from his swarming attack. I somersaulted backwards over Diablo's rump – a move made easy by his two-legged stance – and landed on my feet just as de Soto came at me again. I yelled at Diablo to move out of the way, even as I heard both Vargas and Costa order their respective men to stand fast and not interfere, then sidestepped de Soto, grabbed his sword arm, and threw him over my hip to land in the dirt a dozen feet away.

This gave me time to draw Zorro's sword and my dagger, and de Soto rolled over and started to get to his feet, only to find my sword point inches from his face. I spat one word at him, "Up." He slowly stood, keeping his sword clutched in his right hand, and my sword point moved with him, until I was holding it out at arm's length, level with his face. That's a pose Diego had taught me years ago, that swordsmen practice holding to strengthen their arms. I could hold it for a quarter hour or more.

All my hatred, all my fury, contracted then onto the head of this one man. Many men, officers and others, had done their part in wrecking my life and causing untold pain and misery – Colonel Villanueva, who had ordered the massacre; Mayor Montoya, who had me flogged; Marianna's former so-called husband; many, many others – but all of them were dead and gone, and none of them had ever wreaked as much pain and havoc on my family for as many years as this man had.

I seethed for a moment, relishing my position, then spoke in a low, rapid voice. I don't know how far it carried. "You have two choices. Drop your sword and you can slither out of California with your life, I don't give a damn. Keep fighting, and you're dead."

He scoffed at me. "You're a de la Vega. You'll do nothing!" and I let out a quick laugh, low and absolutely evil.

"You forgot," I replied silkily, before my voice quickly turned back into a snarl. "I'm adopted. I'm the son of Italian fishermen, murdered by the Spanish army. And for the past six years, I've been a Mexican partisan, fighting and killing Spanish soldiers. And you... are just one more Spanish cockroach, waiting to be crushed." I paused a moment, then went on deliberately. "All the things you've done over the years to try to destroy my family. Look around... we're still here!" I hissed at him.

He smiled again, matching me evil for evil. "Your brother isn't!" and I laughed again.

"Look again! He's standing on the cantina porch!"

I saw his eyes flick that way, and his face blanched with fury. I could almost picture Diego there, staring, lifting his head proudly. De Soto jerked as if to go after Diego, but I flicked the sword to get his attention again, reminding him that he was dealing with me now, and I was not Zorro. "We're still here... but you won't be!" I flexed my knees a bit, and my wrist, bringing my sword point up and back a few inches, just enough to give him room to move. "Now go... or die. Choose!"

Of course he attacked. And of course I goaded him into it. I wanted him to fight. (Diego asked me later if I really would have let him go. "Yes," I replied. "Straight down to the harbor and onto a ship – in chains." No, he was not going to escape without paying for his crimes.)

De Soto brought his sword up against mine with a clang, and delivered a flurry of barely-controlled blows. I let him drive me back several feet while I got his measure – Jaime was right. He had lost his sense and skill a long time ago.

And then I counterattacked. I drove him back with every skill I had learned, and I cut and stabbed him a dozen times, shouting out the charges against his behavior as I did: the money he had stolen, the lives he had ruined. I registered the crowd growing assent for each one, and I confess to letting it spur me on. I confess also that I do not recall my exact words now, all these years later; they are overlaid with the fury and triumph I was feeling, at last able to beat down this hated, despised man, taking revenge for everything he had done all those years to the people I loved most.

At the end, he was done, unable to take a step, his sword dragging in the dirt. As I paused for a moment, pulling in gulps of air, weighing how to finish it, he decided it for me. He brought his sword up one last time, preparing to lunge at me, and I instinctively whirled and kicked the sword away, as I had done so many times before – but this time I ended with my dagger plunged into his heart. Staring into his wild eyes, I pronounced his sentence: death; then pulled the dagger out and stepped back. As he stood there, gaping down now, I stepped into a final whirling kick, and brought the back of my heel around to connect with his temple in a tremendous crack that resounded clear across the silent, watching plaza. He went down without a sound and died there on the paving stones.

A moment's held breath that stretched out and out, and then the plaza erupted with cheers, as the people celebrated the end of their hated oppressor. Even my men began slapping their open palms slowly together on their rifle stocks, in the old way of soldiers clapping. I stood there, heaving in my breath, looking at nothing.

What did I feel at that moment? Like a bow string after the arrow was shot, or like a man after releasing himself into the body of his beloved. All the fury I had carried for so long was drained away, pounded into my despised enemy's body with each strike and blow, and those two final kicks, and the dagger in his heart. I was empty, feeling my fingers and toes as if for the first time, the lifelong icy knot in my chest melting swiftly away.

All that I realized later. At that moment, I only knew two things. Two single thoughts, shining so bright and so pure that I could nearly reach out and touch them.

 _It is_ _finished_ _._

 _And I am_ _home_ _._


	24. Chapter 24

**Twenty-Four**

In real life, no story ever ends so cleanly. You must pick yourself up, clean up the mess, make repairs, and figure out how to go on. The story of what we did over the next hours, days, months and years, could fill several volumes. But this part is over, and I am nearly out of pages in this book. But I will tell you a little more.

After a few minutes, I gathered myself up, turned and remounted Diablo. I raised my hand again and whistled for the crowd to be quiet, but of course they ignored me until I had Costa fire off a shot.

"Amigos! I understand your joy, and soon I will share it – but not at this moment! We have a damaged town, and many wounded friends – and some dead. Please, do not celebrate over their bodies!" That got them sobered up, and I went on, asking them to go home and begin cleaning up. "Let us clean up the plaza, take care of the wounded, and pay respect for the dead. Then, tonight... put on your best clothes, get all your friends and neighbors, and come back! Bring food, bring wine, bring music! And we will celebrate our new Mexican independence!"

They cheered again, and I sent my men forward at the walk to move them gently out of the plaza.

Then I dismounted once more, and went to speak to the nervous lancers. First, I called out the two that had been on guard duty the night before, and apologized to them for the dirty trick we had played. I got them to shake my hand and accept the apology, grinning. Then I told them all what I had told Vargas the night before, that I hoped they would all join us. "I intend to lead a combined garrison. And from this moment, no censure or favoritism will be shown to any man, based on where he spent the war." I would not make any distinction between lancer or rifle, as I called them, nor would I use those terms again after the joining was official.

But I made sure to let them know it was an invitation. If any could not, in good conscience, join us, he was free to go. I would have Vargas sign a proper discharge, while he was still officially a Spanish officer, and help them in any way I could, even if they wanted to return to Spain or Spanish-held territory. If they were returning to rejoin the Spanish army, I simply said, "Don't tell me. I don't want to know."

By that time, my own men had come back across the plaza and were gathered with the lancers. And so I pulled what I've always thought of as one of my greatest tricks. I asked each of them to put off their decision for one day. Why? Because I needed the help of every single man there, to keep the coming night's fiesta from turning into a riot, such as we had seen coming north. I wanted no violence, no deaths, no looting, not even arguments, to mar the celebration. I asked will they help me? and they gave a tepid, "Sí, Capitán."

So I pretended to get angry. "Not good enough. When you took your oaths and put on your uniforms, you swore to protect the civilians under your watch, their lives, their rights, their property. I am calling on each one of you now, today, to fulfill that oath – regardless of the rest of it! ¿Now will you help me?" And that time I got a very loud "¡Sí, Capitán!" from both companies and I smiled. I split them up into teams of two – one 'blue', one 'red' – for the color of their uniforms, rifle and lancer – in each team, and had them patrol together all that day and into the night until midnight, when we shut the fiesta down.

Why was that a trick? Because it exposed them to each other for many, many hours, letting them come to see each other as men, fellow soldiers, and not as enemies from opposite sides of the late war; and that let my men do my recruiting for me. By the next morning, I lost only three lancers – two wanted simply to return home, one's brother had been killed in one of my attacks down south. I apologized for that, whether he accepted it or not, and – asking for my men to tell me how many had run that day, half-convinced him that his brother might very well still be alive, quietly making his way home. He still left, but I asked him, if he saw his brother, to please tell him I wished him the best, and that I was not chasing him. (And miracle of miracles, they both returned, sister and little brother in tow, two years later.)

During that long, busy day, I finally had the chance for long conversations with Marianna, Father – and even Victoria, greeting her properly for the first time with a kiss on her cheek. She laughed at me then, saying "Quiet little Felipe. I confess, this is going to take some time to get used to. Especially you speaking!"

I gave her an mock bewildered grin. "You should have been on this side of things!"

And I thanked Jaime for all he had done – and talked him into coming back into uniform as my assistant. I still could not read or write well at that time, but I knew he could – and he was familiar with all the mountain of paperwork I knew would be coming my way as an established army garrison, rather than a "happy little band of partisans in the hills". That is how our long, fruitful partnership in command of our little garrison began.

Later that night, at the fiesta, I gave another speech. I do not like giving them, but sometimes they are important. There were more people there than that morning, so first I introduced myself again. Then I told them that I was only taking charge of the town temporarily, that in three months (I had figured out the date by then) they would all gather together to elect a new pueblo council and a new alcalde. I told them everyone could vote, or even run – so long as they were over eighteen and had lived there for more than six months. Even peasants. And even women. I said I would love to have a council of half women or more - "Because face it, amigos, they are smarter than we are. Anyone who has seen a mother take food for two and turn it into a supper for six knows that." And I did get two – including Victoria. The crowd that night wanted Don Alejandro to be alcalde, but he said no. I did not come up with all these things by myself, you understand – Don Diego and I had been talking, all the way home.

And then I showed the crowd my palm, where the scar was still red and angry, and told them of my blood oath to always protect my people. And who were my people? Not just Italians, not just family, not just the dons. My people are the people of the earth – farmers, laborers, craftsmen. People with shops and cantinas and stalls in the market. Soldiers and civilians and widows and children. People with many acres of land, and people with none. In short: they were my people. The people of the place I call home. The people of Los Angeles.

That has never changed, in all the years, full of trouble and of peace, of change and of tradition, of rapid growth and transformation, since that day. And I have never once broken my vow.

As for the rest... well, all the details of cleaning and rebuilding, laying the dead to rest, the mourning and the celebrations and the hard work, settling into garrison life and training them all to where I wanted them... they are things I remember but do not interest you. And the details of raising our families you already know, my grandchildren. And so I will end this here.

I heard a song recently, supposedly about Zorro. It was stupid, but I liked the last lines, so I give them to you to remember me by.

"So give me a smile, mí cariña.  
A quick kiss and then I'll be gone.  
I may die tonight with my sword in my hand...  
But I live by the light of your smile."

I hear Marianna calling me to dinner.

 _[signed] Don Felipe Marco de la Vega_


End file.
